


A Fine Romance

by Luthien



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Correspondence, Dreams, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Romance, Slow Burn, and some plot happened, newtina, only sort of not, tentative wizard romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8787715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: He should have kissed her.
Newt thinks of Tina, on what should be an uneventful voyage home.Meanwhile, Tina thinks of Newt, and Queenie has no regrets. Perhaps the time has come to stop thinking and dreaming, and take action.





	1. Newt

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think I'd ever revisit the wizarding world - but here we are. I'd forgotten how much I liked writing in this universe.
> 
> The title comes from the song of the same name, lyrics by Dorothy Fields.
> 
>   _A fine romance, with no kisses._  
>  _A fine romance, my friend, this is._
> 
>  
> 
>  Thanks to [Telanu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Telanu/) for looking this over for me and catching my glitches.

He should have kissed her.

Newt knew that when he reached out and gently touched Tina’s hair. He knew it even before he turned and left Tina standing there at the dock.

He knew it when he came running back, to ask if she’d like him to deliver her copy of his book in person. And he knew it when she smiled at him, radiantly, in a way that no one had smiled at him before.

He knew it as he turned and left again, and made his way up the gangplank, the last passenger to board.

He should have kissed her.

Newt knows that now, as he looks out across the grey expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, flinching and huddling closer into the upturned collar of his coat as an angry wave crashes against the side of the ship. He's seated on a bench tucked into a little alcove, not far from the bow, his suitcase at his side. He could have left the case in his cabin, of course, but… well, better not.

He’s the only person out here right now. The other passengers, Muggles to a man, are below decks, heaving the contents of their stomachs into buckets that are barely up to the task. The stewards are doing their best, in the circumstances, to see to the passengers’ comfort. Newt doesn't envy them one jot.

He has his own cabin, but he prefers being out in the fresh air, as far away as possible from those buckets. Of course, this is an easier option for him, since he has in his pocket a bottle of quelling pills, prepared to his own recipe. They’re made principally from _kerestaka_ kelp, a magical, luminescent seaweed found only around the shores of certain islands in the Aegean, and only if you know exactly where to look. The pills have saved Newt from seasickness on a number of occasions in his travels, even if they also gift him with a certain propensity to glow in the dark, ever so slightly.

He remembers Tina’s face, glowing softly with the light of that smile.

He should have kissed her.

Yes, he should – but what if she’d objected? What if that beautiful smile had faded from her face, to be replaced with disdain? Or, worse, with pity. How could he be sure what her reaction would have been? Far better to promise her a copy of his book, and turn and run.

Probably.

He simply doesn't know. And that's the problem. Newt has a far better understanding of the courtship rituals of almost any magical creature in nature than he does of those of the common or garden variety witch and wizard. Not that anyone would ever mistake him for the common variety of wizard. No one would ever mistake Tina for one either, for that matter.

It’s probably just as well that she’s not here. In all likelihood, he would have blurted out that last thought, and then spent excruciating minutes trying to explain that ‘common’ is the last word – in any sense – that he’d ever use to describe her. And, also, that she’s definitely not a wizard.

No. Most definitely not a wizard.

What if he had kissed her? Then what?

Newt knows every step of the Erumpent’s mating dance – which is just as well, given what happened after his Erumpent escaped from his suitcase into the wilds of Central Park. But that’s easy. Even the courtship flight of the Thunderbird is easier to perform than working out whether or not Tina might have welcomed his kiss – or, at least, it would be easier if Newt had the wingspan to pull it off.

Of course, Tina could have kissed him. If she’d wanted to. She’s an Auror, and a thoroughly modern witch – one who wears trousers, no less. She’s never been backwards in coming forwards, not since the moment he met her. If she’d wanted to kiss him, she could have.

But she hadn’t.

The forthright modern witch is just the surface, though. If that had truly been all there was to her, she wouldn’t have captured his attention as thoroughly as any of his creatures.

There’s an edginess to her strength, a deep uncertainty lurking just beneath the face that she shows the world. That’s what it is about her that calls to something similar in him. Two people who don’t quite fit – or don’t fit at all, in Newt’s case. Tina is much better at pretending. She can pass for something almost ordinary almost all of the time, when she’s actually anything but.

The modern, trouser-wearing witch would have kissed him, if she’d wanted, without a doubt. But the nervous, uncertain girl hiding beneath the confident mask… She might not have kissed him, even – especially – if she’d wanted to.

He _really_ should have kissed her.

The realisation is cold comfort now, when he's out here alone on an ocean liner two days from New York and three from London. It's even colder when a blast of freezing air hits him. It feels like there's nothing standing in the way of that wind between here and the Arctic.

Nothing, that is, but the sea.

A huge wave rises up, higher even than the side of the great ocean liner, and crashes back down again, spraying foam across the deck and all over Newt on the way. Newt coughs, and spits out a mouthful of salt water. Maybe it's time to go below, even if the odour courtesy of his fellow passengers is likely to follow him even down into the depths of his suitcase.

On cue, a catch on his case flicks open and a tiny pink paw emerges from the crack where the lid meets the body of the suitcase.

“No, you don’t!” Newt pushes the Niffler’s paw back into the case and closes the catch. He wonders why the Niffler should have attempted to make a break for it now. There was a nasty moment their first night on the ship, when the Niffler came within a whisker of filching a diamond necklace from the neck of a regal-looking lady on the way to dinner. Newt had grabbed the Niffler and stuffed it back into the suitcase in the nick of time.

But there’s no one wearing anything glittery nearby now. There’s no one at all, and certainly nothing shiny to be seen, nothing valuable.

The ship pitches, and for a moment Newt feels as if his stomach is much closer to his mouth than should be physically possible. He grabs automatically for the handle of his case and clutches the slats of the bench with his other hand.

Another wave rises up beside the ship and a great, shiny horse-like head emerges from it, followed by a long neck covered in shimmering silver scales. The neck goes on and on until it becomes a long, sinuous body, disappearing down into the water and rising again as humps above the waves. It towers over the deck, reaching nearly as high as the funnels, and sends water raining down on Newt.

He stands up, but doesn’t even consider going below decks this time.

“Aren’t you magnificent,” he breathes, wiping water out of his eyes and craning his neck to get a better look. “I’ve never seen a sea serpent before. Well, not up close enough to talk to.”

_Wizzzard_ , the sea serpent hisses, though it doesn’t open its mouth and, Newt realises after a moment, it doesn’t actually hiss out loud.

Interesting. He hadn’t known that sea serpents were capable of telepathic communication – but clearly they are. Probably no wizard has ever thought to stop and try to talk to one before. All of the books he’s read that mention sea serpents have tended to focus on methods of escape.

“Yes, I’m a wizard,” he replies, smiling encouragingly.

_Helllp meee._

Newt blinks. The creature is clearly sincere, but what on earth – or in the ocean – could possibly threaten a sea serpent?

Only one thing.

“Is someone hunting you?” he asks.

The sea serpent shakes its head, sending water droplets flying.

_Huntersss can be dealllt withhhh, but thhhisss isss sssomethhhing greaterrr. A darknesss ssspreading thhhrough the sssea. Nowhere is sssafe. Not for thhhe younglingsss. Not for thhhhe eggsss._

“A darkness? A _magical_ darkness?”

_Yesss._

Newt thinks of Grindelwald. What unrest has he left out there in the world? He has many followers, fanatics who don’t care about the repercussions of the forces they unleash on wizards, much less on non-human magical beings.

“And you want me to… “ Halfway through the question, the slight but noticeable swell of the sea serpent’s belly – for want of a better term – rising and falling gently beside the deck with each successive wave provides the answer, and he turns the question into a statement: “You want me to find you a safe place to lay your eggs and raise your young until they’re big enough to take care of themselves.”

_I knew youuu would underssstand._ The sea serpent bows its – her – great head, lowering it until it’s almost at deck level.

“You did?” Newt is genuinely surprised. Most magical creatures are wary of humans, wizard and Muggle alike.

_Your name is known to manyyy creaturesss, Ssscamanderrrr. Did you believvve thhhat I would asssk thhhisss of jussst anyyy wizzzard?_

“Well, when you put it like that, no.” Newt agrees, thinking fast. Where can he put her? There’s Frank’s empty enclosure. He misses Frank, even though he’s more than glad that Frank is free and almost certainly at home in Arizona by now. What better way to honour Frank than to put his enclosure to good use? But will the suitcase hold an ocean, even if it’s just a very small piece of one? The charms on all the enclosures are strong, though. They have to be. If he adds a backup containment charm, to kick in in the unlikely event of a breach, to keep the rest of the case from being flooded… Yes, that ought to do it.

He blinks, his mind catching up with the full import of everything the sea serpent just said. “Really? Creatures know of me? You talk about me to one another?”

He doesn’t know whether to be touched or astounded.

_Of courssse. A wizzzard who caresss for our kindsss isss almossst unheard offf._

“I’m honoured. Deeply honoured. I’ll do the very best I can to prove worthy of your trust.”

The sea serpent nods in response.

“I’ll need to take you into my case in order to convey you. And, perhaps, if no safe place can be found, the enclosure inside the case will have to serve as a nursery. Do you consent to being contained? Of course I’ll let you out again at any time you wish, as soon as I can get you to a good-sized body of water.”

_Yesss. Thhhank youuu._

“I’ll just need to prepare my…” Newt looks down at his case. The Niffler, perched on the handle, looks back. There’s a long, pregnant pause before the Niffler looks away, looks past Newt and up at the sea serpent. The Niffler’s small black eyes go even rounder than usual as it takes in the sight of the sea serpent’s shining silver scales. Newt can almost see the Niffler salivating.

“Really?” he asks testily. “And just what do you think you would do with her if you somehow managed to catch her?”

The Niffler looks unrepentant, eyes still fixed on the sea serpent’s silvery neck.

The sea serpent opens its huge maw, revealing a mouth full of sharp, needle-like teeth, and lets out a blast of cold air that smells of rotten fish. The Niffler is very nearly blown across the deck. It clings to the handle of Newt’s suitcase for dear life.

“Time to go home, I think.”

The Niffler doesn’t struggle as Newt pops it back into the case. Then it’s only a matter of a few spells, and Newt opens the lid wide to draw the next large wave up over the side of the ship and down into the suitcase.

“ _Aqua agito_ ,” he murmurs, and points his wand at the wave. He keeps channelling the stream of water until he’s sure there’s enough in there for a sea serpent habitat large enough to accommodate a family comfortably, and sets the case down on the deck, still open.

“If you’re ready, madam?” he asks with careful politeness, and steps back.

The sea serpent rears up again, drawing herself up impossibly high, and then dives, head first, towards the deck. Newt crouches low, arms drawn up over his head just in case, but the suitcase swallows the sea serpent whole just as it’s designed to.

Newt takes a deep, relieved breath and gets to his feet. He flips the lid of the case shut and picks it up. Now it really is time to go below. He needs to check the sea serpent enclosure and make sure everything is in order.

There’s a flash, and then a sharp clap of thunder, like a whip cracking overhead. A large drop of rain lands on the tip of Newt’s nose. More raindrops follow.

He doesn’t go back to his cabin right away, though. He stops to look over the side. The grey waves look darker now. Is he just imagining it, or are they darker than they should be, even allowing for the stormy sky?

There’s another thunderclap, and it starts raining in earnest. This time, Newt hastens below.

 

~*~

 

Three days later, Newt finds the Niffler, as usual, where it’s not supposed to be. This time, unusually, it’s still inside the suitcase.

“You’ll never catch her, you know,” he says as he climbs up beside the Niffler onto the rocks at the edge of the sea serpent’s enclosure.

The Niffler looks up at him for a moment and then back out at the water. The enchanted sunlight is shining brightly down on the miniature sea, making the small waves sparkle as they crest and break. As they watch, the sea serpent breaks the surface, her silver scales glittering like diamonds as she rises up above the waves, before plunging down again and rolling on her side, her long body undulating lazily.

She’s playing.

The Niffler lets out a breath that sounds very like a sigh.

Newt smiles sympathetically. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? Just because you know you don’t really have a chance, it doesn’t stop the longing.” He lets out a sigh of his own. “Time to get going. We’re almost home.” He clambers down, and then holds out his hands for the Niffler. “Come on. You can’t stay here.” He gives it what he hopes is a stern look.

Reluctantly, the Niffler turns away from the water and settles between Newt’s hands, clinging to his tie as it allows him to return it to its nest. It looks almost pleased with itself as it settles in amongst the coins and jewels and random bits of metal, and starts polishing what looks very like a small round mirror from a lady’s powder compact.

Newt stops in the shed on the way out. The picture of Leta looks back at him from his workbench. She’s smiling in the picture, smiling at him as he takes the picture, on a sunny day long ago. That wasn’t how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her, but it’s how he prefers to remember her.

What had Queenie said, after she’d asked about the picture and then so annoyingly read his mind? She’d said that Newt needed a giver, not a taker. Maybe she’s right, if he needs anyone at all. He’s not sure that he does. Not _need_. But there are other words, words that he’s not ready to think, let alone say. They’re words to be considered, though. One day. When the time is right.

He opens a drawer and places the photograph face down. Perhaps he hears a tiny squeal of protest. Perhaps he doesn’t. He shuts the drawer, anyway.

It’s only once he’s stepped back into his cabin and closed the case behind him that Newt realises that his tiepin is gone. Again.

No wonder the Niffler had looked smug.

He looks around the cabin one last time to make sure that he hasn’t forgotten anything – especially not anything with a liking for shiny objects – double-checks that the catches on his suitcase are properly closed, and leaves the cabin.

Most of the other passengers are already up on deck, waiting to disembark. They’re looking remarkably pink-cheeked and perky for Muggles who spent four days looking pale and green and eating nothing more than dry toast washed down with weak tea.

The storm had abated once the ship had neared England. Newt still wonders about how much magic was caught up in that storm, and just what it was he might have seen in the waters of the mid-Atlantic. Something strong enough and dark enough to make a sea serpent seek sanctuary.

Half an hour later when he arrives at the Ministry, he’s not altogether surprised to see the headline on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

 

_GRINDELWALD ESCAPES! MACUSA IN DISARRAY! PICQUERY REFUSING TO RESIGN!_

 

He buys a copy from the house-elf on duty at the newsstand and reads the rest of the article. Reading between the lines, he can tell that MACUSA isn’t _quite_ in disarray but the place will certainly be busy for the immediate future, and that means that Tina will be busy, too.

Maybe she won’t even have time to think about a strange British wizard and his case full of fantastic beasts.

But maybe she will.

He should get to work on his manuscript. It’s more than half-written. Maybe he can finish it and submit it in the spring. A trip to New York in summer would be… interesting.

Newt smiles, then turns around so suddenly that a short, bespectacled middle-aged wizard hurrying across the foyer in official Ministry robes runs straight into him. Newt looks down at him, still smiling, because for some reason he can't seem to stop. The wizard looks at him strangely, and hurries off again.

New York. In the summer.

He really should have kissed her. Next time he sees her, maybe he will.


	2. Tina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She should have kissed him._
> 
> Tina thinks of Newt.

She should have kissed him.

“Yeah, you shoulda kissed him,” Queenie agrees, not without sympathy, as she wanders into Tina’s room in her shift. “Can I borrow your green dress? I feel like a change.”

“Sure,” Tina replies, keeping her thoughts carefully in check. “It looks better on you than on me anyway.”

“It looks great on you!” Queenie protests. "You should wear it more often." She flicks her wand, removing the dress carefully from Tina’s closet. Still on its hanger, it floats across the room and out the door. Queenie follows it, but she stops and looks back from the doorway. “And you know something else, Teen? He shoulda kissed you, too.”

Tina bites her lip, to make sure that she doesn’t say anything in reply to that, and does her very best to think of nothing but the sky – a wide expanse of featureless blue.

“Well, he shoulda," Queenie says, ignoring the image of the sky with ease. "You both shoulda. But… at least he's coming back." She comes over and gives Tina a quick hug. "You got another chance."

Jacob's name hangs between them.

Tina hugs Queenie back. "Things will get better, Queenie," she whispers fiercely against her sister's shoulder. "For both of us. It's New Year in just a few days. It's a good time to make a fresh start – on a lot of things."

Queenie lets go of Tina and steps back. "Yeah, you're right," she says, sounding brighter than a moment ago. "So, have you heard from Newt at all?" she adds artlessly. She knows the answer to that as well as Tina does.

"No, not a word. He must have arrived back in England at least two weeks ago." Assuming he arrived at all. Why hasn't he written? Because he can't? Maybe his ship...

"Of course his ship didn't go down. We woulda heard about it if it had!"

"Could you stop reading my mind for a bit, Queenie?" The question is sharp, much sharper than Tina usually ever is with Queenie.

Queenie looks hurt. That terrible bruised look is in her eyes, the look that Tina swore she'd banish forever when they were kids. Tina feels like a heel. She shouldn't be taking her feelings out on Queenie. Growing up, Tina liked having Queenie in her head all the time. She took comfort in that closeness after their parents died. It's not Queenie's fault that Tina prefers a little more distance these days – especially when she's feeling… the way she's feeling. Queenie can't just shut off the connection like a tap.

"That's okay," Queenie says with a tiny smile, as easily forgiving as always, which only makes Tina feel worse. "There could be a dozen reasons why Newt hasn't written." She shrugs. "Maybe he just hasn't had time. You know how things have a way of happening to him."

Tina has to admit that this is true. "Yeah, you're right," she says. The clock in the hallway strikes the half-hour. "Now go get dressed or we're going to be late for work." She shoos Queenie out of the room, and sits down on the side of the bed to put her shoes on.

It's only once she hears Queenie's bedroom door close that Tina lets herself think the thought that's been lurking for days now: maybe Newt hasn't written because he doesn't want to. Why else wouldn't he have written – _really_ – even if it was only a quick note to say he was home and safe?

Tina shakes her head, exasperated with herself. She's being silly, which is ridiculous because 'silly' is about the last word anyone would use to describe her.

Newt ran back from the gangplank to offer to deliver a copy of his book to her, in person, across the goddamn Atlantic Ocean, she reminds herself firmly. That's not the action of someone who doesn't want to see her again. It's the action of a man of few words who's trying desperately to think of an excuse to come back. He wouldn't have done that if he hadn't liked her. He wouldn't have reached out and touched her hair, and stared at her so intensely that she thought, she almost thought…

It's just that he _matters_ to her, he matters an awful lot, and she's not even really sure how it happened. One minute he was an annoying British wizard with a suitcase full of prohibited wildlife, and the next minute he was… Newt. Of course, the whole business of his saving her life may have helped her to see him in a more favourable light, but this feeling… Tina knows what gratitude feels like, and this isn't it.

But still: how long does it take to scribble a few lines? And it's not as if he has to send his letter by ordinary owl post. MACUSA has a line of direct and instant communication with the British Ministry of Magic via the distascribo typewriter. It would be easy for a Ministry employee to send a distascribo message to a MACUSA Auror without raising any eyebrows. Or for a MACUSA Auror to send a distascribo message to a Ministry employee.

And there's her answer.

She could have kissed him, she should have kissed him. It's too late to do anything about that now – about that particular non-kiss, anyway - but she _can_ write him. And if he doesn't like that, then too bad. At least she'll know for sure, one way or the other.

 

~*~

 

Things are usually pretty quiet at MACUSA in the week between Christmas and New Year, but Grindelwald's escape from custody several weeks ago has turned everything upside down. There hasn't been a trace of him since. It's pretty clear to Tina that Grindelwald must have long since fled the country. No doubt he'll pop up in Europe again before long. But there's no telling her bosses that, so Tina and all of her colleagues in Magical Law Enforcement are run off their feet, chasing leads that go nowhere.

Tina gets back to the office that afternoon just before three. She hasn't had time for lunch, not even to grab a hotdog, and she's starving. She flops in her chair, too weary even to go in search of food for a moment, and Queenie appears in front of her desk with a sandwich and a cup of coffee on a tray.

"I thought you might need these," Queenie says, setting cup and plate down on the desk in front of TIna.

"You're a lifesaver," Tina says, already biting into the sandwich. It's corned beef on rye. Her favourite. _Thank you_ , she thinks.

"You're welcome." Queenie grins mischievously.

Tina knows that grin. _What?_

"Oh, nothing," Queenie says. "I'd better get back. See you later."

And she's gone before Tina can get any more out of her. She wonders what Queenie's up to, but she's more interested in the sandwich right now, so she finishes it with unseemly haste and drains the cup of coffee almost as quickly.

She feels much better now that she's been fed and watered. Her turn of phrase immediately puts her in mind of Newt, and the letter she's determined to write to him today – if she has the time. She's supposed to have a half hour lunch break, though most days, like today, she just grabs some food when and where she can and works straight through. If she counts from the moment that Queenie appeared with the sandwich and coffee, she's only used – she checks the clock – about five minutes of her lunch break. That gives her twenty-five minutes to write something and get down to the Department of International Magical Relations to send it on the distascribo typewriter. That should be more than enough time.

She gets out her notepad and a quill, and makes a start.

> _Dear Newt_ ,

That seems like a good beginning. _Not_ Mr Scamander. The wizard who used a Swooping Evil to get her out of that execution pool, who stood there and smiled at her and offered her a copy of his book – who made her feel fully alive for the first time in forever – is never going to be _Mister_ anything to her again, even if he doesn't answer her letter.

> _I hope you had a smooth voyage and arrived safely back in London. Note that I do not say an uneventful_

She underlines this twice.

> _voyage, though I do hope that you managed to fix that loose catch on your suitcase._
> 
> _Everything is going along much as usual here in New York. Work is a little busy right at the moment. I know you read the newspapers, so I'm sure you can guess why._
> 
> _I guess things must be pretty busy at the Ministry too. I hope it still leaves you enough time to work on your book. How is that coming along, by the way?_

Is that why he hasn't found time to contact her, why he's dropped right out of her life as if he was never in it to begin with?

> _I intend to keep you to your promise to send me a copy, and most especially by the delivery method that you mentioned._

Surely that's a clear enough message that there can be no mistaking her meaning. She doesn't want to be more direct, since this letter will be going through official channels.

Tina stares down at the notepad. She's filled half a page and she's already lost for anything else to say.

> _~~I miss you. I wish you hadn't left so soon. I wish your book was published yesterday. Last week.~~ _
> 
> _~~I wish you were here.~~ _
> 
> _~~Why haven't you written???~~ _
> 
>  
> 
> _Hoping to hear from you soon._
> 
>  
> 
> _~~Love~~ _
> 
> _~~Fond regards~~ _
> 
> _~~Best wishes~~ _
> 
> _~~Yours sincerely~~ _
> 
>  
> 
> _Your friend_
> 
>  
> 
> _Tina Goldstein_
> 
> _Auror  
>  Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
>  MACUSA_

Tina frowns down at the letter. It's not what she thought she was going to write. She's not really sure what that even was, except that it isn't this. But when she takes out all the things that she can't say, it turns out that there isn't much _to_ say.

Tina glances at the clock, and her eyebrows rise in surprise. How the heck did it take her a whole twenty minutes to write those few lines? She tears the page off the notebook and races to the elevator.

"Hey, Goldstein," the goblin bellboy greets her.

"Hey, Red. Can you get me down to IMR, pronto?"

"Sure." Red closes the doors on the elevator, and it shoots off along its shaft like a Quidditch broomstick taking off. Tina has to grab for the railing to stay on her feet, but she appreciates the speed.

The Department of International Magical Relations is mostly deserted at this hour. Many of its staff have already gone home, since it's evening in the European countries and much of the rest of the world hasn't gotten up yet. They'll be back in the early hours of tomorrow, when Europe rises for the day, while most of the other witches and wizards employed by MACUSA are still abed and asleep.

It will be evening in London right now, Tina realises. There wasn't any reason for her to rush down here. Newt will surely have left the office for the day by now and gone home – wherever that might be. He won't receive her letter until tomorrow.

Tina tries to ignore the hard knot of disappointment that pulls tight in her chest. Tomorrow will arrive all the sooner in England. If she sends her letter now, there might very well be a reply waiting for her on her desk when she gets in tomorrow morning.

She finds the distascribo room without too much difficulty – and finds it occupied. The distascribo is sitting on a desk in the middle of the small room, and a witch is seated in front of it, typing furiously. There are several other desks pushed up against the walls, but otherwise the room is empty.

"Can I help you?" the witch asks without turning around.

"I wanted to send a message."

"Get in line, honey." The witch stops typing and indicates a stack of paper on the desk beside her. "I gotta send all these before Mr Murcutt, the Head of IMR, gets in tomorrow morning."

"How long do you think you'll be?"

The witch turns around to look at Tina. She's wearing a neat grey skirt suit, sensible shoes and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. The whole look screams 'secretary'. "Is it urgent?" she asks.

"I'd like to get it sent today, if at all possible," Tina says carefully. She's learned the hard way not to get on the bad side of administrative staff who work directly for a head of department.

The secretary seems to take pity on her. "Put it on the pile. I'll get to it once I get through these. What's the address?"

"Thank you very much," Tina says, "but actually I was intending to send it myself." She's beginning to get the feeling that sending her letter via distascribo typewriter isn't going to be nearly as straightforward as she expected.

"That's… not usual," the secretary says.

"I'd really prefer to do it myself. The message is a little… confidential." Well, that's not exactly a lie.

The secretary snorts. "That's what they all say."

"I work in MLE. I'm an Auror. And… you know how that is."

"I know how all you Aurors think it is," the secretary says dryly, but she doesn't sound particularly hostile.

"Maybe if I come back after five?" Tina suggests. "It's not a long message. Just a few lines."

The secretary considers her for a moment and seems to come to a decision. She types a few more words then hits a large key near the right hand side of the keyboard. The distascribo makes a dinging sound, like a small bell ringing, and the sheet of paper flies off the carriage and attaches itself to a waiting file hovering above a desk over by the wall. "Okay," she says, and gets up. "Make it quick."

Tina sits down before the secretary has a chance to change her mind. The distascribo is shiny and black, and looks like an ordinary typewriter that's been the victim of a misdirected enlarging spell. As well as the usual keys for the letters of the alphabet and numbers from zero to nine, along the top it includes three rows of coloured keys with symbols on them that Tina doesn't recognise.

"You need to set the destination organisation first," the secretary instructs her as she feeds a sheet of paper into the machine.

"The Ministry of Magic, London, England."

The secretary leans over Tina's shoulder and hits a gold-coloured key on the far left of the top row of extra keys followed by a blue key off towards the right hand side.

"Urgency level?"

"Uh, ordinary." Tina wants to say that of course it's urgent, nothing's ever been more urgent, but that would be a perfect way to draw attention to her letter, and that's the last thing she wants. She only wants one person to pay attention to it.

The secretary hits an orange key in the middle row.

"Security level?"

"Private and confidential," Tina says firmly.

The secretary hits a red key on the bottom row.

"Okay, the connection to the Ministry of Magic is all set. Now start typing and address the letter as you usually would. Everything you write on this machine will be copied instantly by the distascribo at the Ministry. Once you're done, hit the carriage return key here," the secretary indicates a large purple key, "and that will end transmission."

Tina is getting the feeling that it's just as well the secretary was here. She definitely wouldn't have been able to work out how to use the distascribo without help.

"Thanks Miss..." she begins, and waves a hand in apology that she doesn't know the other witch's name. "I'm Tina Goldstein, by the way."

The secretary quirks an eyebrow. "Goldstein, huh. Is that blonde witch from the Wand Permit Office some relation?"

"Queenie's my sister. You know her?" Tina asks, not sure whether this is going to prove to be a good thing or a bad thing in the secretary's eyes.

"No, I just ran into her… recently."

"Queenie gets around the building."

"Hmmn." The secretary looks hard at Tina for a moment. "I'm Elsie Mahoney," she says abruptly. "Mr Murcutt's personal secretary."

"Well, thanks for your assistance, Miss Mahoney. I won't be long, I promise." Tina is as polite as before, but her firm tone makes it clear that it's a dismissal.

"Yeah, I get the message," Miss Mahoney says. "I'll be out there at my desk if you need me."

Tina heaves a sigh of relief as Miss Mahoney leaves the room. She really doesn't want anyone else to see what she's written, particularly not the bits that aren't going to make it into the final version. Using the distascribo hasn't turned out to be nearly as simple, or as private, as she'd expected. They're going to have to try some other form of post next time. Assuming that Newt writes back, of course. If not, finding another method of communication will be a purely academic exercise.

Sighing again, Tina makes sure the paper is lined up straight on the carriage, and starts typing.

> _Mr Newt Scamander_  
>  _Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Beast Division,_  
>  _Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau_  
>  _Ministry of Magic_  
>  _London, England, United Kingdom_
> 
> _December 27, 1926_
> 
>  
> 
> _Dear Newt,_
> 
> _I hope you had a smooth voyage…_

 

~*~

 

Queenie's in the middle of preparing dinner when Tina gets home that night.

"How was the rest of your day after the sandwich?" Queenie asks, as potatoes peel, chop and mash themselves behind her.

"Oh, the usual. Paperwork interrupted by a possible Grindelwald sighting." Tina sighs and leans against the sideboard. "It turned out to be a No-Maj 'magician' from a travelling carnival. We had to obliviate him." Queenie nods sympathetically, but her perfect brow creases a little, and Tina hurries on from the subject of obliviating No-Majs. "Oh, and I, uh, wrote to Newt."

Queenie's expression lifts and she grins, interested. "Did you now?"

"Just a quick note to see how he's doing. I sent it on the–"

"Distascribo? Oh, Teenie, you didn't!"

"I wish I hadn't. The IMR departmental secretary, Miss Mahoney, was a bit like a dragon guarding her hoard."

"Oh, she's okay. You just have to talk to her the right way."

"She said she knew you, or that she'd met you, at least."

"We bumped into each other somewhere recently," Queenie says vaguely, turning back to attend to the dinner. She points her wand at the loaf pan and lifts a meatloaf gently out and onto a tray.

"How was your day, anyway?" Tina asks.

"Oh, the usual," Queenie says, echoing Tina's own reply from earlier. It's an answer that can cover a multitude of sins, and Tina remembers that mischievous grin on Queenie's face this afternoon. She wonders– "I'm not up to anything!" Queenie protests. "'The usual' just ain't that interesting. Not like the sorts of things you get to deal with these days. Now go clean up. Dinner's nearly ready."

"Are you sure–"

"So what did you say in your letter to Newt?" Queenie asks, and fixes Tina with a gentle smile that's the equivalent of a gimlet eye from anyone else.

Tina holds up a hand in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm going." And she goes, but as she takes off her hat and coat and goes to wash her hands, she still can't help wondering if there's something Queenie's not telling her.

 

~*~

 

There might be a letter waiting. A letter from Newt.

That's the first thought that crosses Tina's mind when she wakes up the next morning.

And there might _not_ be a letter waiting, she reminds herself all through breakfast.

"Just go get dressed so that you can go to work and find out for sure," Queenie says at last, after showing heroic restraint in not commenting on Tina's inner turmoil until now. "I'll do the dishes."

"Thanks," Tina says, and disappears into her bedroom nearly as fast as if she'd apparated there.

There might not be a letter from Newt waiting. There really might not. She mustn't get her hopes up. Maybe he isn't at the office today and doesn't even know that she's sent a letter. Not that it was a good letter, or a long one. Maybe he has more important things to do than write a reply, even if he has received her letter.

There probably won't be a letter waiting, she reminds herself sternly as she apparates to MACUSA. "Probably not," she mutters as she takes the elevator to MLE.

Red gives her a funny look, and Tina goes back to silently repeating that to herself. By the time she gets out of the elevator, she's finally convinced herself that there's not going to be a letter from Newt – so when she walks into the office and finds an envelope waiting on her desk, she stops dead, unsure of what to do next.

Well, she could open it and read it, she suggests to herself tartly.

Tina picks up the envelope. It's one of the standard buff interdepartmental envelopes used within MACUSA, but the address typed on the outside reads:

> _Miss Tina Goldstein_  
>  _Auror_  
>  _Department of Magical Law Enforcement_  
>  _MACUSA_  
>  _New York City, New York, USA_

The top left hand corner of the envelope has been stamped 'Private and Confidential' in red.

Hands trembling a little, Tina runs her wand along the edge of the envelope to open it and takes out the letter. It's a single sheet of paper, she sees at once, and can't stop the tiny pang of disappointment. She unfolds it, and begins to read.

> _28th December, 1926_
> 
> _Dear Miss Goldstein,_

What? After everything they've been through together, after that moment on the dock, she's still Miss Goldstein to him?

> _Thank you for your communication of the 27th instant._

Tina can't believe her eyes. He's managed to follow up that opening with something even more formal!

> _I trust that you and your sister are both keeping well. Please remember me to the other MIss Goldstein, if you would._

Remember him to Queenie? What about her? Is he even interested in how she might feel about him?

> _As you will perceive from this letter, I have arrived back in England safely, though you were correct to predict that the voyage was not uneventful._

That sentence is so thoroughly Newt that Tina can't help but bite down a tiny smile. She can just imagine the sorts of incidents that 'not uneventful' might cover.

> _Things are quite busy here at the Ministry at the moment, as you also anticipated. I have, however, had time to work on my book and I believe that I am making good progress on it, though my publisher, Mr Worme of Obscurus Books, repeatedly requests that I cut the length of many of the entries and only retain the essential details. I am finding it quite difficult to do so, since I believe that every word I've written_ is _an essential detail._

Tina's smile grows a little wider, despite her best attempts to hold on to her outrage. Oh, Newt!

> _I will close now, since there are others waiting to use the distascribo quill._

Quill? Wow, it sounds like the Ministry hasn't caught up with the 20th Century yet. Tina shakes her head, but she's very aware that she's come almost to the end of Newt's ridiculously short letter. It takes her a moment before she can make herself read the last few lines.

> _May I suggest that you use a different channel when next you write? There have been some eyebrows raised here at my receiving distascribo communications from America, and even more at my sending them in return. I have an alternative method of communication available to me, as it happens, so if you would be so good as to wait a day or two, you should be in receipt of another letter providing fuller details of my Atlantic crossing, and of other matters._
> 
> _And yes, I have not forgotten my promise about the delivery method. Why do you think I've made such progress on the manu_
> 
> _Yours_
> 
>  
> 
> _Newt Scamander_
> 
> _Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau,  
>  Beast Division, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures  
>  Ministry of Magic_

Tina stares down at the letter in her hand, lower lip trembling, and doesn't know what she's feeling. She feels as if she should be smiling, and there's some huge, warm emotion welling up inside her, but her eyes are glassy. Hastily, she pulls out her handkerchief and wipes any suggestion of tears from her eyes. Then she reads the letter again, to make absolutely sure that she hasn't imagined those last few sentences.

The words remain the same, indelible on the page in stark black and white.

He's expecting her to write back. And he's going to write to her again, properly this time! And he hasn't forgotten about his promise, or…

Tina considers that last, incomplete sentence of Newt’s, and remembers all the less than cautious words she scratched out in the draft of her own letter. However it happened, she's willing to bet that that sentence wasn't supposed to make it into the final version of his letter – but she's so, so glad that it did. It makes up for all the cold, formal phrases at the beginning of the letter, even if it's now become obvious to her that those were for the benefit of any official eyes that might read them.

And he's ended the letter with 'yours'. Not 'your friend' or 'yours sincerely', but 'yours'.

Hers.

She hugs the letter to her chest, and all the warmth inside of her comes bursting out in a smile so wide that it makes her jaw hurt.

"You all right, Goldstein?" Cesarone, one of the other Aurors, asks as he enters the office at that moment.

"Never better," Tina replies, because it's only the simple truth.


	3. Queenie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queenie doesn't have any regrets.

She's glad she kissed him. She's so incredibly glad that she stood there in the rain and took his face in her hands and kissed him, so that the last memory he had of her, before memory was washed away, was the touch of her lips on his.

Queenie's glad she doesn't have regrets. Not about anything that she has any control over, anyway. She's even more sure that she was right to kiss Jacob that day when she looks at Teenie, tying herself in knots over what might have been, and then tying herself in even more knots trying to work out where she stands with Newt. Queenie gets the feeling that Newt's been tying himself in similar knots of indecision over Tina. It sure sounded like that in his reply to the distascribo message Queenie sent him, where she told him that if he cared about her sister at all he should sit down right this minute and write Tina and let her know that he was still alive.

Queenie just keeps shaking her head sadly at the both of them. It didn't have to be this way. If only one of them had leaned forward that day on the dock and just… tried. But then, Teenie's always been like this: brave to the point of recklessness when it comes to helping or protecting someone else, and then cautious beyond belief when it comes to herself and her feelings.

She still can't quite believe that Teenie decided— _finally_ —to write to Newt, and then sent her own distascribo to him the very same day that Queenie did. Queenie tried so hard to be nonchalant when Tina came home last night and asked how she knew Elsie Mahoney in the Department of International Magical Relations. She's super lucky that Elsie didn't give her away, but then Elsie really is a sweetheart under that gruff exterior. Queenie will make sure to send her some flowers as a thank you.

But right now she needs to fetch coffee for the bigwigs who are meeting on the fifteenth floor, and then she's going to drop by MLE and see how Tina's doing. If Newt still hasn't written, she'll, she'll…

Luckily Queenie doesn't have to work out exactly what she'd do to Newt, because she doesn't even need to peek into Tina's mind to know that Newt _has_ written, and he's even managed to find the right words, or some of them. One look at Teenie's face is enough.

"He wrote back!" Queenie squeals.

"He wrote back," Tina agrees, in a much quieter voice, but there's a gleam to her eyes and the hint of a smile lurking around the corners of her mouth. She doesn't even think that Queenie shouldn't be so loud, much less say it. If Queenie needed any more proof about how Tina's feeling, that would be more than enough.

She quietens down, anyway, because no-one else needs to hear about Teenie's love life—or whatever it is you call what's going on between her and Newt.

"So, what did he say?" Queenie asks, and it's a genuine question. Her sister's thoughts are in a whirl and it's real hard to make sense of exactly what she's thinking about Newt and his letter—though the general gist is pretty darn clear.

"He started by asking to be remembered to you, actually," Tina says, and the hint of a smile turns into genuine amusement.

"How nice!" Queenie says, and she mostly means it. With just about any other man, that would have raised a red flag for sure. But Newt isn't devious enough to mean anything other than what he says, even though he was exchanging distascribo messages with her only yesterday.

"Well, actually that's not quite true," Tina amends, looking down at the letter on the desk in front of her. "First he thanked me for my 'communication'. _Then_ he asked to be remembered to you."

"Oh, Teenie," Queenie says, shaking her head and trying not to laugh.

"It improved as it went along." Tina isn't laughing. She's smiling properly now. It makes her whole face light up. Her eyes stray back to the letter again. Queenie doesn't think Teenie's even aware that she keeps doing it.

"Just as well." And just as well Queenie gave Newt the little push he so clearly needed. Who knows how long it might have taken him to reply to Teenie's letter if she hadn't?

"He's going to write again soon. Not a distascribo, though."

"Something a bit more private next time. Better and better!"

"Queenie, we're just writing each other. It's not a grand love affair!" Tina tries to look exasperated. She fails.

"Yet," Queenie says with a little giggle. She can't help teasing Tina just a bit, but she's truly never seen her sister like this over anyone, so wound up about a kiss that never happened, and then so radiant thanks to a message that isn't exactly the suavest love letter ever written. No-one's affected Tina like this before, not even… But she won't so much as think that dirty rat's name.

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" Tina asks. "Like your own office?"

"I do, actually," Queenie says with dignity. "I'll leave you to your letter," she adds with a sideways look that's almost a wink.

Her sister's thoughts are even more of a confused jumble than before as Queenie leaves the office.

The next hour is filled with a million little tasks. Queenie wouldn't call any of them better than being with her sister, but hey, it's a living.

She leaves the building at lunchtime and walks down the street a little way, stopping to browse a few store windows and giving every impression of having no special destination in mind. Then she turns the corner and ducks into an alleyway. It's deserted. There's no-one there but Queenie. A few seconds later, Queenie isn't there, either.

She Apparates to another convenient alleyway on the Lower East Side. This one isn't quite as deserted as the other, but the young couple twined about one another at the bottom of a fire escape are aware of nothing except each other. Queenie's glad that she can sneak past without having to Obliviate them. That would be… is 'ironic' the right word? She's never quite sure. Teenie would know—but of course Teenie can't know anything about this.

Queenie steps out onto the street. The air is brisk, and it's a couple of blocks to her destination. She pulls her scarf closer round her neck and hugs her coat tighter. She could have Apparated to someplace closer, of course, but sometimes it's better to blend in with the No-Majs when you don't want to draw anyone's attention.

She finds the street without any trouble—she's been here before. Things have progressed since last time. The little shop has been given a lick of paint and no longer looks derelict and abandoned, and there's a lot of activity going on. Men in overalls are unloading a large No-Maj vehicle and conveying… objects—could that be an oven?—in through the open front door on small, wheeled contraptions, while overhead a signwriter is perched at the top of a ladder, carefully painting 'KOWALSKI' along the the top of the shop front in elegant black letters.

There's no sign of Jacob, though. Queenie really wants to move closer, so that she can peek in through the store window and see if he's inside. It's a real effort to make herself stay by the street light near the corner.

A sudden loud noise makes her jump, and someone shouts, "Look out!" A moment later, a large wooden crate crashes off the back of the vehicle and onto the street. And a moment after that, a can falls to the ground and spills black paint all over the sidewalk. Cursing, the signwriter climbs down the ladder after it.

A small crowd is gathering nearby, so Queenie tells herself that it's okay to come closer and hide herself among the No-Majs.

A short, stout man emerges from the shop and pushes his way through the crowd just as Queenie reaches it. Queenie's breath catches.

"My Chambers stove!" Jacob cries, because of course it's Jacob. Queenie would know him anywhere. He crouches down by the crate. "Help me get her onto the hand truck and inside, and let's hope like heck that she's not broken."

Jacob and a couple of the other men drag the crate onto the little ledge thing on the front of the _hand truck_ and something inside the crate rattles. That doesn't sound good.

Queenie feels in her coat pocket for her wand.

" _Reparo_ ," she whispers. She can at least do this much for him.

"Careful, careful," Jacob says, hands hovering above the crate as if he's prepared to grab it if it falls, as one of the other men pulls back on the handles of the hand truck and starts wheeling it towards the door of the shop. Jacob looks after it, fretting visibly, and then he seems to become aware of the crowd. "It's okay," he says. "Nothing to see…"

Queenie is standing in the back of the crowd, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. That's what she tells herself, anyway, and yet somehow their eyes meet. She can't look away.

"... here," Jacob finishes, still staring at Queenie. He reaches up and touches his neck, right where Newt's Murtlap bit him.

Queenie smiles tremulously. Does he remember? Maybe… maybe the enchanted rain didn't work on him? Maybe…

The sudden flash of memory from Jacob hits her so hard that she staggers back a step. There's a jumble of images: the Erumpent, charging with its horn lowered; a lion standing on a city street at night; the giant Occamy, squeezing, squeezing, and a feeling of breathlessness; Newt, wand in hand, looking ten feet tall and deadly; and a suitcase that swallows people whole. Last, there's a picture of herself, surrounded by lightning, looking beautiful and terrible, like some sort of dark witch.

Queenie wants to call out, to tell Jacob that he's got it all wrong, that these should be good memories, not nightmares, but the words stick in her throat like someone's cast _Silencio_ on her.

And then Jacob is thinking, _No, no, no_ , and shaking his head and frowning, and hurrying back into the shop after his precious stove.

With nothing left to gawk at save for the paint being cleaned off the sidewalk, the crowd is dispersing now. Soon, only Queenie is left, standing there and staring in through the window. After a minute or two, Jacob's helpers come back out to load another crate onto the hand truck, but there's no sign of Jacob himself.

Queenie turns and leaves. As she walks back down the street she tells herself that she's happy that at least she saw him, at least she heard his voice. It takes her a while to realise that she's blinking back tears.

Once she gets back to the alleyway—thankfully empty of other people now—she takes out her handkerchief and dabs carefully at her eyes and cheeks, then gets out her compact to powder her nose. Once she's done as much as she can to conceal the effects of the tears, she checks her reflection in the compact's tiny mirror and gives herself a watery smile. She'll do. No one who doesn't know her very well should notice that anything's amiss.

For once, she's glad that Tina's work keeps her out of the office so much.

 

~*~

 

The next couple of days are nothing special. Everything seems flat and dull to Queenie, and it's not just the December weather getting to her. She tries not to think of Jacob, and, when she can't help but think of him, tries not to let it show. She must be succeeding because Teenie hasn't noticed anything.

Teenie is quiet, not just on the outside but on the inside. It's unnerving. Queenie is used to a sister who's usually quiet on the surface but roiling with emotion underneath. Every so often those strong feelings erupt into action, usually on behalf of someone else, and Teenie winds up someplace she doesn't want to be, like the Wand Permit Office. Or a death cell. Then things settle down again, until the next time. That whole thing of still waters running deep is Teenie to a T.

Those waters are running deeper than ever since Teenie got over her giddy reaction to that letter from Newt. She's practically closed herself off. Queenie tries not to feel hurt by that. She knows that Teenie wants her privacy, but she's never shut Queenie out like this before. Something has to break through the wall of Tina's reserve, and soon. Another letter from Newt should shake things up. Queenie hopes that that 'alternative method of communication' that he mentioned in his letter will make an appearance before too much longer.

As it turns out, she doesn't have long to wait at all.

The night before New Year's Eve, as Queenie's in the kitchen making her bedtime cocoa, something knocks at the window. Not the tap-tap-tap of an owl's beak, but a mighty thwack.

Tina comes running out of her bedroom in her pyjamas, wand at the ready.

"What was that?" she exclaims.

"I dunno, but it sure sounds impatient," Queenie replies.

"Open the window. I'll cover you—just in case." Tina's using her Auror voice, so Queenie does what she says.

" _Alohomora_." She points her own wand at the window, and steps back.

There's a bird hovering outside the window. It's definitely not an owl. It looks a lot like a seagull, its feathers mostly white with grey-flecked wings, but its beak is pale pink. It's also quite a bit larger than a seagull, in the same way that a leopard is quite a bit larger than a house cat. Its wingspan must be ten feet across. At least.

"Is that… an albatross?" Tina asks.

"Maybe?" Queenie replies uncertainly. "Do you think the window's wide enough for it to fit through?" she asks, though it's clear that it isn't.

" _Engorgio!_ " Tina points her wand at the window, which stretches wider and wider until the albatross—if that's what it is—glides in through the window, skids along the kitchen table and comes to a stop inches before it runs out of tabletop. It settles there and folds its great wings behind it. "It's wide enough now," she says with satisfaction.

The albatross leans back, displaying its snowy white chest, and pushes one pale pink leg forward. There's a message attached. The bird looks expectantly at Tina.

Tina carefully removes the message and unfolds it. "Thank you," she says politely to the bird. Wordlessly, she shows the slightly mangled envelope to Queenie. It reads:

> _Miss Tina Goldstein_  
>  _The Upstairs Apartment_  
>  _679 West 24th Street_  
>  _New York City, New York, USA_

A gust of freezing wind blows in through the open window and Queenie shivers. She turns away to see to the window, giving Tina the semblance of privacy to open her letter.

_Newt! Albatrosses. Dragons. Oh, the silly- A sea serpent?_

Queenie smiles to herself as she hears her sister's thoughts bouncing around. Teenie definitely isn't closed down any more.

When Queenie turns around again Tina is seated at the kitchen table, still reading through the letter, the slight smile on her face giving little hint of the welter of emotions inside.

"It _is_ an albatross," she says, without looking up. The albatross makes a sort of clicking noise deep in its throat, as if recognising that it's being talked about. "A wandering albatross, to be precise. Her name's Freddie, short for Winifred. Newt says not to give her any owl treats, but if we should have a spare herring or two…"

Queenie grins at that. Anything to do with food is her department. She doesn't even need to say the charm out loud, but just flips her wand towards the bird—Freddie—and a fish appears and sails across the room. Freddie catches it neatly in her beak, and swallows it in one gulp.

"You're welcome," Queenie tells the bird, and goes back to making cocoa. Freddie seems content to stay perched on the edge of the table for the moment. She probably needs to rest up after flying across the Atlantic, though she doesn't seem tired. She's looking around the room with bright, inquisitive eyes and taking in everything.

Queenie sets down a mug of cocoa for Tina on the table beside her. She's almost out of the room, intending to flip through a back issue of _The Witch's Friend_ in bed while she drinks her own mug of cocoa, when Teenie looks up again.

"Don't leave on my account, Queenie," she says, and smiles.

Queenie is drawn to the warmth of that smile like a sunflower turning towards the sun. She's felt starved of sunlight lately. "It's okay. I know you want a little privacy."

"You probably already know most of what's in this." Tina holds out the letter to Queenie. "Read it. I don't mind, and I'm sure Newt wouldn't mind either. He knows that pretty much anything I know, you'll know too before long. Besides, there isn't anything really private in it."

"Darn!" Queenie says, shaking her head sadly. "He'll have to try and do better next time."

"There's nothing wrong with this letter," Tina says, trying and failing for something like a prim tone. "See for yourself."

Queenie takes the letter and begins to read.

> _26th December, 1926_

He wrote this two days before he sent the distascribo letter, then— _and_ the day before Queenie sent her distascribo telling him to write to Teenie or else. So he _was_ going to write to her sister anyway! Maybe there's hope for him—hope for both of them—yet.

> _Dear Tina,_

That's an improvement on how he started the distascribo, at least.

> _Firstly, I must request that you NOT give Freddie—Winifred, my long distance post albatross—an owl treat. I am sure that you are far too sensible to do any such thing, but I feel I must mention this anyway as there have been a few unfortunate incidents in the past. However, if you should have a spare herring or two to hand, Freddie would receive those most gratefully._

Sensible? No witch wants to be called sensible by a wizard she can't stop thinking about. Probably not even Tina.

> _As you can see from her plumage, Freddie is a wandering albatross and thus, even though native to the South Pacific, far better suited to braving the headwinds of the North Atlantic than the typical post owl. She is also nicely inconspicuous so far as Muggles—No-Majs—are concerned, provided she keeps sufficiently high up in the air to be mistaken for an overly large seagull._

_Yeah, yeah, it's a fabulous bird,_ Queenie thinks. _Get on with it, Newt. Be brave. Tell her you miss her or something. You stood up to Grindelwald without flinching so surely you can tell Teenie what's really on your mind._

> _Secondly, I must apologise that I have not written sooner. To be honest, at first I wasn't entirely sure_ what _to write, other than to inform you that I had arrived back in England safely. That seemed like poor material for a letter, so I waited a few days in case anything happened that might provide interesting reading for you, and then… Well, let's just say that a Chinese Fireball happened on the Isle of Wight and leave it at that. The cleaning up afterwards was long and tedious._

Or then again not.

> _I hope you and Queenie are both well. I am also well and, as you see, have arrived back safely in England. The voyage across the Atlantic was not especially tranquil. It was, in fact, extremely stormy, so I did not see a great deal of my fellow passengers, who were confined to their cabins for much of the trip. I did, however, make the acquaintance of a rather impressive sea serpent. She requested my assistance, which I duly provided to her. She has settled nicely into the space recently vacated by Frank._

Queenie's eyes widen. He's got a goddamn sea serpent in that case of his!

> _Also, and I hesitate to mention this, you should know the reason that the sea serpent sought me out. There is some sort of darkness spreading through the ocean. I don't know what it is, but I believe I may have seen a hint of it in the tempestuous waters of the mid-Atlantic. It seems certain that it is magical in nature, and quite probably malign. The sea serpent was seeking sanctuary from it, somewhere safe to lay her eggs and raise her young._
> 
> _Could this be the work of Grindelwald and his followers? Or perhaps an unintended side-effect of some act of theirs? I really don't know the answer to that, but the timing of it seems more than coincidental with Grindelwald's escape from MACUSA and subsequent disappearance. It's something to think on, in any event._

Queenie shivers, though not from the cold this time, and quickly moves on to the next paragraph.

> _When not clearing up after rampaging dragons, I am making progress on my book, though I suspect my publisher's view of the matter might be slightly different from my own. I fear I am too wordy for his liking._

Queenie grins. Too wordy? Newt? The wizard who doles out words like they're made out of gold dust? But then, he's also the wizard who starts a letter to an attractive young witch with two paragraphs about his albatross, so maybe his publisher has got a point.

> _I remain hopeful of completing the manuscript sometime in the spring, and for the book to be released in the summer, just in time for holiday reading—or that's how Mr Worme, my publisher, puts it, at any rate._

There is a blot of ink on the page here, as though Newt had held his quill above the parchment for quite a while before writing the next sentence.

> _I thought I might make another visit to New York, perhaps in August, and I hope very much that you would still welcome a hand-delivered copy of my book._

_Attaboy, Newt!_ Queenie thinks approvingly.

> _Until next I hear from you, I remain_
> 
> _Your friend_
> 
>  
> 
> _Newt Scamander_

Queenie sighs. He was doing so well, and then he had to spoil it by calling himself Teenie's _friend_. At least he didn't say that he thinks of her like a sister. She guesses she should be thankful for that much.

> _PS Wandering albatrosses spend most of their lives in the air, so it would be best not to keep Freddie inside for long after you read this letter. She will require a bit of help with take-off, so if you would be so kind as to throw her out of the window as hard as you can, she and I would be much obliged. If you wish to send a reply, simply open the window and call her name. She will remain in the skies above New York for several days before making the return journey._
> 
> _NS_

Queenie looks up, and finds Tina watching her.

"See?" Tina says. "There isn't anything in there that's really personal."

"I don't see Newt offering to deliver a copy of his book to me—or to anyone else," Queenie points out.

"No, but-"

"No buts! He likes you, and you like him. What's not to like about that?"

"Nothing," Tina admits, looking down at the table. "But-"

"No buts," Queenie says firmly.

"No." Tina holds up a hand as Queenie opens her mouth to speak. "Okay, _yes_. You're right. He likes me and I… I like him," Tina admits, as if this is news to either of them. "And no, I don't want to talk about it any more right now." She looks over at Freddie, who is rocking gently in place at the other end of the table. "We'd better get this bird out into the air where she belongs."

Freddie makes the strange clicking sound in her throat again. She definitely knows when she's being talked about.

"So, do we just pick her up?" Queenie asks dubiously.

"I guess so," Tina replies. She stands up and laces her fingers together, then thinks better of it. Freddie must weigh twenty pounds.

"Oh, good idea!" Queenie says, seeing what Tina has in mind. "I'll open the window."

" _Mobilicorpus_ ," Tina says, pointing her wand at Freddie, at the same moment that Queenie points her wand at the window and says, " _Alohomora_."

Freddie doesn't seem alarmed at being conveyed across the room by magic. Something tells Queenie that this has happened to her before. The albatross comes to rest on the windowsill. She waits there, expectant.

"Okay, Freddie, I'm going to pick you up now," Tina says. "Queenie, give me a hand?"

Between them, they hoist the albatross up.

 _On three_ , Tina thinks. _One, two…_

They heave Freddie towards the window as hard as they can, which Queenie worries isn't nearly hard enough. Freddie sails out of the window, wings still furled, and drops like a stone down below the window ledge.

"Oh, no!" Queenie exclaims, but a second later the huge bird, great wings spread, flaps into view. She circles once right outside the window, as if in farewell, and then disappears up into the night sky.

They stand there, looking after her for a moment. Tina shivers in the cold night air. "I'll sort this out." She gestures at the window, which is taking up a good chunk of the wall in its present form. "You go off to bed."

"Okay," Queenie says. Teenie wants to be alone with her thoughts, but she's not trying to hide that from Queenie any more. Queenie's more than okay with that. Impulsively, she leans forward and brushes a kiss on her sister's cheek. "He likes you. Accept it," she says against Tina's ear, and then turns and leaves the room before Tina can deny it out loud.

Tina denies it silently, of course, but the denial is all mixed up with hope and apprehension and a warm little inner glow that won't be shaken. If there's one thing Queenie doesn't find in that jumble of emotions, it's regret. Teenie's going to know for certain, one way or the other.

As she tucks herself up in bed with her cocoa and magazine, Queenie's thoughts return to Jacob. There are plenty of regrets there, for all that she prides herself on never having regrets about anything in her power to change. But she really doesn't have any control over what happened with Jacob's memory of their time together. What could she do? He thinks his memories of her aren't just a dream but a nightmare. She can't tell him the truth, or even slip him a sweet dreams potion.

She could let him see her again, though, and be a living contradiction of what he thinks he knows. Once the bakery is up and running, she could be a customer. There's nothing to stop her doing that. Buying a few pastries from a No-Maj business isn't the same as _fraternising_ , after all.

No, if she wanted to fraternise with a No-Maj she couldn't do it. Not legally. Not here. She'd have to go someplace else. Europe, maybe…

Queenie nearly chokes on her cocoa. Could she do it? Would it be possible?

Europe…

She places her mug carefully on the nightstand and leans back against the pillows, letting the magazine drop to the floor.

Whatever the future holds, Queenie is going to try her damnedest to take the path of no regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Nym](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/pseuds/Nym) for help with birdy details.
> 
> I'm [luthienebonyx](http://luthienebonyx.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you want to talk to me over there.


	4. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt dreams of Tina. He dreams of her all the time.

He dreams of her. He dreams of her all the time. Some of the dreams are gone the moment Newt wakes up, leaving behind only the impression of something vivid and all too real, tantalisingly just out of reach. Other times, the dreams linger into wakefulness, and he hoards the details like the Niffler hoards every shiny thing.

There are dreams made up mostly of memory: Tina as she was the last time he saw her, her expression open and vulnerable, letting him see the softness that she guards deep down. Tina, eyes flashing, shouting at him, as she did so often when first they met. Tina on a rooftop at dusk, unable to look away from him quite as much as he is unable to drag his eyes from her face. Tina, dressed to kill, perhaps in more ways than one if the need arises, as the jazz singer sings and the speakeasy erupts into violence around them. Tina trusting him, jumping when he tells her to jump, and then the feel of her, warm and alive and oh so close in his arms.

And then there are the dreams of things that never happened, wishes seemingly made flesh. There's the kiss that should have happened that day on the dock. He dreams that more than anything else, of the dreams that he can remember. When he reaches out to touch her hair, he feels her tremble, just as she did that day, but now she moves her head, just enough for her to press a kiss into his palm. Her lips are firm and purposeful, yet somehow soft and pliant too. It's his turn to tremble. Tina sighs, and her breath is hot against his skin. She opens her eyes to look at him, and that look is question and answer both. Next thing he knows, she's pressing that kiss against his lips instead. She's in his arms, and he's kissing her back, and they're not on the dock any more, because this is a dream after all.

They kiss for hours, or moments, as he pushes her up against a wall, pushes her high with a spell or a thought, as one hand tangles in her hair and the other kneads her arse. She moans into his mouth, pulls at his shirt in frustration until buttons fly off in all directions, grabs his hips and pulls him closer, so close that there's only a whisper of fabric separating them. He's lodged there, hard and aching, tight against the apex of her thighs, and it's glorious, like nothing else on earth. He thrusts up against her sodden silken knickers, and they both moan. He does it again and she grinds herself against him this time.

They both let out a shuddering breath.

He thrusts again, and suddenly he's lying on his back, in his own bed, and Tina is above him, quite naked, her dark hair a stark contrast as it falls against her pale, luminously beautiful skin. She throws back her head, wanting this, wanting him.

It's the easiest thing in the world to reach up and stroke her naked-

"BEKERK!!!!"

Newt sits bolt upright in bed, gasping. Beside him, his hippogriff alarm clock continues to strike the hour. Five more "bekerks" follow before it falls silent. He sits there for a moment, heart racing, and not just because of the dream. He's not used to hearing that bloody clock. He usually wakes before it has a chance to make any sort of noise and takes care to switch it off. The thing belongs in the garbage, or possibly at the bottom of the sea, but it was a present from his mother, so...

It's quite dark at 6.00 am in late January in London. Still panting, he reaches for his wand on the bedside table and mutters, " _Lumos_." He blinks as light fills the room, and falls back against the pillows. Lower down, his morning wand is tenting the bedclothes, and he can feel the wet patch on the sheet where pre-ejaculate has leaked from his cock.

The dream is already fading. He tries to mentally snatch at it but it's like attempting to catch a hinkypunk. He knows what the dream was about, _who_ it was about, though, and the nature of it. His erection provides mute testimony of that.

He feels vaguely guilty about his dreams of Tina. It's not as if he has the right to think of her in such terms, and in the waking world he'd never dream of… dreaming of the things that his sleeping mind conjures.

It's so easy in the dream. Even now, with the details almost lost to him, he knows that. Everything works out. No-one is awkward or embarrassed or unsure. No-one makes a wrong move. They both want the same thing and they're in perfect accord.

How does one achieve that with a real, live person? Newt doesn't know. But he does know that Tina's the only person with whom he wants to try to find the answer.

He must have sighed, because Pickett makes an enquiring noise from his bed atop a leaf-covered cushion on the bedside table and jumps down, landing on the bed with a tiny thud. He advances purposefully across the deep blue quilt towards higher ground. Bowtruckles love high places, and Newt knows that the mound in the bedclothes is an inviting perch.

"Pickett," Newt warns. "We've talked about this before. Remember?"

Pickett trills a disappointed reply.

"No. Really," Newt says firmly, and pulls back the covers to get out of bed.

Pickett squeaks in surprise, and then scolds Newt at the top of his very high voice.

"You're perfectly fine. The covers on that side of the bed haven't even moved," Newt reassures him. "Now wait here while I get ready, and then we'll go downstairs to get breakfast."

He gets out of bed, casting a quick _Tergeo_ at the sheet as he leaves the room.

The flat is freezing cold. The built-in heating charm must be on the blink again. The bathroom floor feels as if it's made out of ice. He uses the toilet and strips quickly, then looks down at his cock, which remains stubbornly at half-mast.

"That really won't do, you know," he tells it, and hops into the bath, but he doesn't sit down in it. " _Cataracta_ ," he incants, and aims his wand upwards. A second later, warm water starts falling from the ceiling directly above his head, like a small, contained waterfall. It's a slight modification of a spell that he picked up in Siam, far less trouble than a bath. He grabs the cake of soap from its dish and works it briskly into a lather along his arms and chest, and further down. But warm water is not what he needs now.

" _Frigidus_."

He shivers as the waterfall moves in spirit from Siam to Siberia. He stands there, teeth chattering, for a good thirty seconds.

" _Finite incantatem_."

He leaps out of the bath so swiftly that he almost slips. He grabs for the towel rail on the wall and rights his balance at the last possible fraction of a second, which is really just as well. Newt doesn't fancy the embarrassment of having to explain just _how_ he managed to fracture a rib at home in his flat after emerging (mostly) unscathed from months tracking down (not all that ferocious) (really) magical beasts in foreign parts.

The towels slither off the rail and rub up against him like a couple of Kneazles hoping for a second breakfast. He lets them dry him off and wrap themselves around him—one around his waist, the other draped across his shoulders. After a cursory shave he goes back to the bedroom.

It's no warmer in here. He casts an interim heating spell to keep the bedroom at a temperature at which he has at least enough feeling in his fingers to do up his shirt. He can almost hear Theseus laughing, not unkindly, that his little brother has gone soft during his travels in warmer climes. Newt lets out a not very amused laugh. It's not the warmer climes that are the problem. At least the freezing shower did what it was supposed to, he reflects as he puts on his underwear.

He dresses quickly, deposits Pickett—still scolding gently—in his shirt pocket, and opens his suitcase on the bedroom floor.

It's warmer in the case, as is to be expected. There is no comparison between the heavy-duty climate charms Newt designed specifically for his creatures' habitats and the flimsy commercial heating charm currently not working in his flat.

His creatures, as ever, are pleased to see him, which warms him better than any heating charm. The baby Occamies are growing well—though not, fortunately, in a choranaptyxic sense.The case's dampening charms make very sure that there will be no incidents like the one in the Muggle department store in New York. But still, at their resting weight, the Occamies are nearly twice the size they were at birth, and consequently it takes almost twice as long to feed them. Then it's on to Dougal, who shimmers into view at his approach, and the Mooncalves, the Graphorns, the Bowtruckles—Pickett remains in his pocket, feasting on mealworms—and all the others. Finally, he makes it to the sea serpent's enclosure. Newt doesn't actually have to feed her, since there are plenty of fish to her liking to be found in her minuscule sea, but he wants to check how she's doing.

It's been well over a month, and he still hasn't found a marine environment that meets with the sea serpent's approval, or his own. He's tried several points along the south coast, and the east coast as well. He hasn't yet had the time to make any expeditions farther afield, but there's no denying that there's something deeply unsettled and unsettling about the coastal waters around Britain just now. Just as with that certain darkness of the water out in the mid-Atlantic the day he met the sea serpent, he can't quite put a finger on what, exactly, is wrong. Except that it's magical. Except that the sea serpent wants to protect her young from it—and that should give any wizard pause for thought.

There still hasn't been any definite sign of Grindelwald anywhere, neither in America nor Great Britain, nor Europe. Newt shivers. It feels like the calm before the storm.

He finds the Niffler hanging precariously over the very edge of the rocks at the entrance to the sea serpent's enclosure. Newt takes hold of it, gently, and pulls it back a little way. The Niffler gives him a reproachful look.

"I don't know whether Nifflers can swim, and I'd rather not put that to the test, if you don't mind," he tells it. Nifflers generally dislike water, so the question rarely comes up.

The Niffler huffs, and turns to look back out across the water. They wait there for several minutes, but there's no sign of the sea serpent. Newt is not unduly concerned. She's turned broody since she laid her eggs, and is less inclined to show herself.

"Come on," he says, picking up the Niffler. "Breakfast."

Once the Niffler has been dispatched to its lair with a hearty breakfast of household scraps and 'leftover' mealworms pilfered from Newt's shirt pocket over Pickett's strenuous objections, Newt at last sees to his own breakfast. Sitting at his workbench in the shed with a cup of extra smoky Russian Caravan tea by one elbow and a bowl of steaming porridge by the other, he opens the small, silver-inlaid box in which he keeps Tina's letters. On top of the pile is the new one that arrived late last night. He read it three times before he made himself close the lid on it so that he could go back to bed. Maybe that's why his dreams took the direction they did. Not that Tina wrote anything improper, of course. Simply being herself is enough of an encouragement for his sleeping mind, apparently. The tips of his ears burning with the memory, he absently takes a sip of tea and almost scalds his tongue. Dropping the teacup back in its saucer, he unfolds the letter.

> _Mr Newt Scamander  
>  24 Ryder Street  
>  London, SW1, England_
> 
> _January 22, 1927_
> 
> _Dear Newt,_
> 
> _I hope you and all of your 'fantastic beasts' are doing well. Have the Graphorns gotten over their colds? I hope so. I really don't want to imagine one of them sneezing, never mind the whole family._
> 
> _Things are much the same here. I always seem to say that, don't I? But it always seems to be true. Everything's quiet. Too quiet. Even Queenie. I'm sure there's something's going on with her, but she's not letting on. Sometimes I really wish I was the one with the mind-reading talent—but only sometimes._

Newt's eyes stray to the folded sheet of paper tucked up at the back of the box separate from the main pile of letters. It's the second distascribo from Queenie, the one she sent to him in the first week of the new year. She'd commenced her message with a prettily-worded apology, hoping it wouldn't be a problem for him to receive yet another distascribo from an American witch named Goldstein, and after that she'd got straight to the point. She'd seen Jacob again, and he hadn't quite forgotten her. It was worse than that: he thought that all of his memories of magic were bad dreams, and that Queenie herself was the chief nightmare. Could Newt help with some advice? Could this be some sort of side effect of the Swooping Evil venom? Or… something else? And was there anything she could do about it?

Newt had replied that same day. He'd explained that before he'd had Frank rain down the Swooping Evil venom on the whole of New York, he'd been intending to investigate whether it could be used to remove bad memories, and that it had worked very much as he'd hypothesised—for most New Yorkers. But Jacob was different. His memories of the wizarding world were good ones. Even the less pleasant experiences were still good ones to him, because they were part of a great adventure—and the greatest part of that adventure for him had been Queenie herself. What effect would the Swooping Evil venom have had on good memories? It was a very good question, but twisting those memories into bad dreams would not seem to be beyond the bounds of possibility.

In the end, the only practical advice that Newt had been able to give was to suggest that Queenie try making new good memories to supplant the bad dreams. Perhaps she should consider buying baked goods instead of making her own? Maybe a certain No-Maj bakery would be able to provide her with just what she wanted…

Newt hasn't heard anything from Queenie since. He hopes that's a good sign. He pats the distascribo message down to make sure that it doesn't get caught in the box's hinge, and turns his attention back to Tina's letter.

> _Work is busy but frustrating. As I said above, it's too quiet. As usual, every bit of suspect activity that seems to be a pointer to Grindelwald turns out not to be. I'm surprised there's been no sign of him on that side of the Atlantic. Things are too hot for him in the States right now, and most of his (known) followers are in Europe._

It's a familiar theme throughout their correspondence. It's a serious topic, but also safe. They both feel on solid ground talking about it. Maybe that's why the rest of Tina's letter consists of what Newt can only think of as the written version of smalltalk. Maybe she's as unsure as Newt of exactly what to say. He'd thought that their continuing conversation would flow better, that they'd relax more with each subsequent letter. And that did seem to be what was happening at first, but now, somehow, they appear to be going backwards.

He glances down to the very end of the letter:

> _I look forward to hearing more about your book._
> 
> _Yours_
> 
> _Tina_

Tina always finishes her letters with a mention of his book. Usually, she says something about its publication, or even makes a reference to his offer to deliver a copy to her in person. She hasn't done that this time, though. Just a simple 'I look forward to hearing more about your book'. Why? Does she wish, now, that she hadn't so rashly accepted his offer? Or is she, perhaps, not wishing to repeat herself? For possibly the first time in his life, Newt wishes he were able to look someone in the face and hear what she says, rather than having to rely on the written word. He wants to see the expression on her face and the look in her eyes, hear the tone of her voice, as she makes that simple statement. He's always found conversation awkward, and smalltalk, with its many treacherous undercurrents, baffling at best, but right now he'd give a lot for a good conversational nuance if Tina were the one doing the nuancing.

Newt turns the page over, and it's only then that he sees the 'PS' scrawled right at the bottom of the _verso_.

> _I look forward to your next letter. If I'm being honest, I should probably say that I look forward to every letter from you. I've never had a penpal before, but I don't think that that's quite what we're doing, is it? If we're both being honest._
> 
> _T_

Newt stares at those few extra lines, and re-reads them twice, but they still say the same thing. He can hear Tina's voice as he reads them, and imagine the unguarded look in her eyes. She has such dark, beautiful eyes. Until he left England, he rarely met anyone with truly dark eyes. Most British wizards have blue eyes, or grey, or green, or an indeterminate mix of those shades, like Newt himself, or even amber.

Leta was unusual— _is_ unusual—in possessing brown eyes, but hers are not as dark as Tina's. They don't compare.

It's with a certain melancholy that he returns the letter to the box. Eventually, he remembers to sip his tea, which has cooled to a much more drinkable temperature, and eat his porridge.

He takes Tina's letter back out of the box and reads her PS several more times before he finishes breakfast. The sombre mood has lifted by the time he finally puts the letter away again and ascends the ladder to get ready to go to work. He might even be smiling, just a touch.

Later that morning, he stops smiling rather quickly.

 


	5. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just another working day at the Ministry - until it isn't.

Somewhere between morning tea and lunchtime, Newt is deep in battle with Mr Worme's suggested edits on his overview of the habits and habitat of the Runespoor when Ivan Wilberforce, the Principal Dragon Wrangler, pokes his head around the door.

"If I could have a word, Scamander?" he asks, and steps into Newt's office.

"Of course, Mr Wilberforce," Newt replies politely. It's not as if he has any real choice.

Wilberforce, a small wizard with thinning hair and a neatly trimmed moustache, looks down at Newt. Newt looks back, trying to appear attentive. Wilberforce's eyebrows rise, and Newt finally gets the unspoken message. He scrambles to his feet.

Wilberforce clears his throat. "This morning I received a communication from a Mrs Verity Fitchett of Gwyllt Gwyntog on the coast of Wales. She claims to have seen a dragon." He rolls his eyes briefly heavenward.

"Well, in fairness to Mrs Fitchett, it's not entirely impossible. The Common Welsh Green—" Newt begins.

"She claims that the dragon in question is smaller than an adult Welsh Green and has copper-coloured scales with black ridges."

There's only one type of dragon that fits that description. "A Peruvian Vipertooth? In Wales?" Newt says in astonishment.

"Indeed," Wilberforce says, nodding. "And not just in Wales, but in the village itself. Mrs Fitchett claims to have seen the dragon over her hedge when she was doing a spot of gardening this morning."

"That seems… rather unlikely. Unlikely that she would have survived long enough to report such a close-up sighting of a Peruvian Vipertooth, apart from anything else."

"Indeed," Wilberforce repeats.

Newt frowns. "Sir, if I may ask, why are you telling me about Mrs Fitchett and her supposed dragon sighting?"

"Because you'll be travelling to Wales shortly. Every reported dragon sighting must be investigated post haste, no matter how, ahem, _unlikely_ the report may seem at first glance. You know that very well."

"But, Mr Wilberforce. I'm currently—"

"Yes, yes. I know you have leave to work on that book of yours whenever there's nothing more pressing going on at the Bureau." Wilberforce waves dismissively at the pile of papers on Newt's desk. "But right now all of the other fellows are out on more important cases, so it rather looks as though you're it." He gives Newt a tight, humourless little smile. "You'll take the Floo. Mrs Fitchett is expecting you."

"Then I'd best not keep her waiting," Newt says. There isn't much else he _can_ say when the Principal Dragon Wrangler puts it in those terms. And even he knows better to suggest that maybe the Principal Dragon Wrangler has the skills and experience to follow up on this one himself.

"Good, good. In that case, I'll send the file along and leave the matter with you." He nods once, satisfied that the matter is settled, and leaves the room.

Newt looks down at Mr Worme's edits, and sighs. It looks very much as though those are going to have to wait until after he returns from what will no doubt prove to be a fruitless expedition to Wales in search of a Peruvian Vipertooth.

Though wait. Didn't Mr Wilberforce say that the village was on the coast of Wales?

As if in answer, a small brown owl ducks in through the partly open office door, a bulging file in its beak. It drops the heavy file on the desk, with a look in its eyes that can only be called relief, and settles on the back of Newt's chair. Newt offers an owl treat in thanks, which the owl gratefully accepts before flying off again.

Newt checks the most recent file note, which informs him that yes, Gwyllt Gwyntog is on the Welsh coast. It's an isolated wizarding village about ten miles north of the isolated Muggle town of Aberystwyth. Really, he couldn't have chosen a more perfect spot to introduce the sea serpent to the western coastal waters of Great Britain if he'd tried. He should be able to deal with Mrs Fitchett fairly quickly, and then he can make a detour via the beach before returning to the office.

Unfortunately, his simple plan turns out not to be as simple as he'd planned. Mrs Fitchett is an elderly witch, probably well over her personal century, with iron grey hair pulled back in a tight chignon and disconcertingly youthful bright blue eyes, and she likes to talk. She _really_ likes to talk. A great deal. It takes Newt less than a minute to work this out, since she starts talking while he's still standing in the fireplace brushing soot from his jacket, and doesn't stop to let him get a word in edgewise—apart from a 'yes, thank you' when she offers him a cup of tea—for some time.

Still talking nineteen to the dozen, Mrs Fitchett offers him a seat in one of the two fireside armchairs in what is clearly the little house's front parlour, used only for company. It's as neat as a pin, and obviously not used much. She takes the other chair, and settles in for what she clearly intends to be a nice, long—one way—chat.

Finally, after a long saga that starts with fireplaces she has known, ranges through the problems with her friend Daisy's fireplace, her friend Daisy's problems with garden gnomes, Mrs Fitchett's own garden, in which a gnome has never dared tread, Mrs Fitchett's worthless late husband who was useless with all forms of lesser magical creatures, the superiority of Wales 'when it comes to that sort of thing. Not like what you have to deal with over in England, dear', and the general superiority of all things Welsh over all things foreign—a term that appears to apply to England quite as much as to countries on other continents in Mrs Fitchett's worldview—Mrs Fitchett pauses to take a sip of her own cup of rapidly cooling Formosa low valley oolong—quite the worst tea Newt has ever encountered, though he sips at it manfully—and he seizes his chance to steer the conversation back towards the reason for his visit.

"So, you sighted what you believe to be a dragon this morning, Mrs Fitchett?" Newt asks, privately wishing that he'd taken the time to look into that file a little more fully before he'd departed the Ministry. He's willing to bet that it contains a lot of file notes about dealings with Mrs Fitchett. Bloody Wilberforce. No wonder he didn't want to do this one himself!

"No 'believe' about it, dear. It _was_ a dragon. Just over the hedge there, in the laneway!"

"You reported that its scales were-"

"The colour of a copper kettle. Or, no, wait, maybe more rust-coloured. Not green, anyway, that's certain."

"And it didn't attempt to attack you, or breathe fire or anything of that nature?"

"It wouldn't dare," Mrs Fitchett says, eyes narrowing into an expression of quite alarming steely determination.

Newt is almost willing to believe this, but he presses on now that the flow of words from the other armchair has slowed. "And what happened to the creature after you saw it in the laneway?"

Mrs Fitchett looks at him as if he's the one who's crazy. "Now how could I possibly know that, dear? I can't fly without a broom, and even with a broom, at my age-"

"So it flew away?" Newt cuts in. It's either do that or be here quite literally all day. It's already looking darker outside than when he arrived, though that's probably a storm moving up the coast. The trees outside the window are swaying this way and that in the wind.

"It was sitting in the laneway as quiet as you please, but as soon as it saw me looking at it… Well, it looked straight back at me. Unnerving it was, as though it knew just who I was and what I was thinking. And then away it went. Off into the sky, stirring up the wind behind it."

"And which way did it fly?"

"Oh, off over the hill somewhere," Mrs Fitchett says vaguely, and does not elaborate. For the first time since Newt arrived, she chooses now to stint on detail.

"So, it flew inland, would you say?" Newt asks.

"Oh, yes. It definitely didn't fly out to sea. Unless it changed direction after it got over the hill, of course. The beasts can be unpredictable like that. I once knew-"

"I see," says Newt, though he really doesn't. "Could you show me exactly where you were when you saw it?"

Mrs Fitchett's eyes brighten. "Of course, dear."

She gets up immediately, and leads the way through the house and out the back door into the garden. Once outside, Newt sees that he wasn't wrong about the approaching storm: there's a huge black cloud looming to the south. All the more reason to get this visit over and done with. He looks around the garden, searching for… he doesn't even know quite what.

Like the house, the garden is quite small, but even in the bleak greys and browns of winter Newt can see that it's well-tended. Perhaps Mrs Fitchett really was in the garden this morning when she saw… whatever it was she saw.

"I was standing over there," Mrs Fitchett says, pointing at a medium-sized tree in the corner of the garden. It's more a skeleton of a tree at this time of year, but it's still familiar enough for Newt to identify it.

"That's a Wiggentree, isn't it?" he asks. "A magical rowan?"

Mrs Fitchett beams. "It is indeed. I see that you know about more than just dragons, young man."

"Herbology is a secondary interest," Newt says, shrugging and staring fixedly at the Wiggentree. "It's a fine specimen," he adds, going to take a closer look.

Mrs Fitchett positively preens, but before she has a chance to open her mouth, there's a small but extremely violent commotion in the left breast pocket of Newt's coat, and Pickett emerges, chittering excitedly. The Wiggentree seems to come to life, bark and twigs standing up of their own accord, and chittering right back.

Newt is a little taken aback. Not at the presence of the Bowtruckles, because most Wiggentrees are guarded by branches of Bowtruckles, but he is surprised that Pickett and the other Bowtruckles were aware of each other's presence from right across the garden. He makes a mental note about that for inclusion in the entry on Bowtruckles in his book.

He holds his hand palm-up against his chest, and Pickett jumps down from his pocket. "Would you like to visit?" Newt asks, moving his hand towards the tree. Pickett stops chittering and shakes his head violently, holding on tight to Newt's shirt cuff to emphasise his point.

"Oh, he won't want to perch on the Wiggentree," Mrs Fitchett says, coming over to stand beside him. "Not if it means leaving his own tree."

"His own… Oh, you mean me?"

"It's how they think," Mrs Fitchett says, sounding rather more serious and thoughtful than she did when Newt was trapped in the parlour with her. "You don't think it _was_ a dragon, do you?" she asks abruptly.

"I don't know," Newt says carefully. "It's possible that you saw… well, any number of things, really." Or nothing at all.

"Well, whatever it was, it was large and dragon-shaped, I can assure you of that much," Mrs Fitchett says, with a firm nod of her head.

And that's the crux of it. "Large and dragon-shaped, yes," Newt says slowly, feeling carefully around the edges of the thought taking shape in his mind. He may have hit on something here. "It looked like a dragon, but it didn't _act_ like one." Still assuming that it wasn't all a figment of Mrs Fitchett's lively imagination, of course.

He glances around the garden, looking for anything else that might fit into the picture that he's beginning to see. He spots a gardening trowel stuck into some recently disturbed soil close to the Wiggentree.

"Mrs Fitchett, you wouldn't have been touching the Wiggentree when you saw the dragon, would you? Perhaps you had a hand against the trunk or encountered a root when you were digging with your trowel?"

"Possibly." Mrs Fitchett frowns. "You're thinking of the tree's protective properties?"

"Yes." But Newt's already moving, crossing the garden to the gate in the hedge. Pickett, still deep in conversation with the Bowtruckles on the Wiggentree, protests loudly, but for once Newt ignores him. He lifts the latch on the gate and steps out into the laneway.

Outside the shelter of the garden, the wind is fierce, and the hedges on either side of the lane turn it into a wind tunnel. Pickett is nearly blown away and grabs on to Newt's sleeve for dear life. Newt hastily stows him back in his coat pocket, murmuring apologies.

The laneway is probably very picturesque in summer, with flowering hedgerows and dappled light coming through the branches of the trees above as laughing children run along the gravel path to the beach. But now the trees are leafless, and hedgerows flowerless, and the gravel underfoot is mixed with dirty sludge, no doubt the remains of the village's last light dusting of snow. The sludge is potentially more useful than any fanciful might-have-been, though.

Newt isn't truly expecting to find any trace of anything remotely dragon-like, since the simplest explanation is that a lonely old witch has been seeing what she wants to see so that she has an excuse for some attention, and company for tea. But there's his evidence, just the same. He stoops to examine a deep indentation in the sludge, and yes, there can be no doubt. A dragon's foot made that, or, rather, something that was shaped exactly like a dragon's foot.

Could it have been some sort of dark creature transfigured into the shape of a dragon? It seems the most likely explanation. If Mrs Fitchett were touching the Wiggentree, she would have been protected from any creature of darkness. But why? Why would something like that be here at all?

He wishes Tina were here.

The thought arrives unexpectedly and with such force that he lets out a long sigh of surprise. He wants to tell Tina about this. He wants to hear what she has to say. She'd see at once how this puzzle fits together, and she'd bring her own brand of analysis to it. Her perspective is the equal and in some ways the opposite of his own. They complement each other.

He can't wait to reply to her letter and tell her all about this, but now, even more than this morning when he read her latest letter, he wishes he could see her face and hear her voice. He doesn't want this discussion to take weeks. He wants her to be here. He wishes she were here right now.

But if wishes were hippogriphs, Muggles would fly, as his mother used to say. Right now, he needs more than footprints and gut reactions. If he wants to be believed back at the Ministry, he needs more comprehensive evidence.

He ducks back in through the garden gate and almost knocks Mrs Fitchett flat.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Fitchett!" Newt grabs her by the arms to keep her from falling.

"I'll live," Mrs Fitchett says dryly. "I take it you found something?"

Newt nods. "I'll just need to fetch something from my case. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He finds his case in the parlour, just where he left it. The loose catch has flicked up, but no-one seems to have escaped. Newt opens the case and half-climbs, half-falls down the ladder to his workshed. It takes a matter of moments to find the small bottle filled with a pale green liquid. A few drops of that should tell him what he needs to know.

Newt pockets the bottle, and goes to check that every creature is where it should be. The Niffler, for a wonder, is curled up asleep in its lair—and the sea serpent is waiting by the rocks at the edge of her enclosure.

 _Wizzzard_ , she says before Newt has a chance to greet her.

"I'm glad you've decided to show yourself, madam," he says. "Today I've brought you to a different sea, one that may offer more in the way of shelter than the others we've tr-"

_Cannot youuu feeeeeel it, Wizzzard? The darknesss isss clossse._

"Darkness? Nearby? You can feel that? I'm pretty sure there's been a dark creature near here recently, but it's gone now."

_Nooo. The darknesss approachesss._

"How close?" Newt asks.

The sea serpent shakes her huge head and sprays Newt liberally with seawater. _I cannot measssure the dissstanccce, but I know that it approachesss. I feeeeeel it in myyy belly and on myyy ssscalesss. My fangsss ache with the knowing._

Newt nods, and digs out his handkerchief to wipe the water from his face. "I think perhaps we'll forget about our trip to the sea today. As soon as I've finished what I have to do, I'll take us far away from this place."

_That would be wissse._

And with that, the sea serpent rears up, arcs gracefully through the air, and dives down below the waves, cutting the water so cleanly that Newt barely gets splashed.

Newt wastes no time in ascending the ladder back into Mrs Fitchett's parlour.

He finds the old witch still out in the garden. The dark cloud off to the south has moved closer in the few minutes that Newt has been away, and the wind is blowing even stronger than before. Dead leaves are flying in all directions, and Newt hears a sharp crack that sounds like a tree, or something equally large, breaking and splintering. He'll have to make this as quick as possible.

Mrs Fitchett says nothing about his slightly damp clothes, and he wonders if maybe she's rather more shaken by their near collision than she's willing to admit, but she follows him out into the laneway this time and watches keenly as Newt takes the bottle filled with pale green liquid from his pocket. It's a revealing potion of his own devising that can be applied to a hair or a claw, or even a fingerprint or a footprint. It will reveal the shape of the creature who left the footprint behind, and more. He cups his hand against the ground to protect the potion from the wind as he sprinkles a few drops on the giant footprint in the mud, and steps back.

They both watch as grey smoke pours from the footprint up into the air, quite impervious to the blowing of the wind, and takes the shape of a dragon. A Peruvian Vipertooth, to be exact. Newt would know those horns anywhere.

"That's it! That's exactly what I saw!" Mrs Fitchett exclaims, pointing at the shadowy dragon. "Except for the colour, of course. It wasn't grey."

"This won't remain grey," Newt tells her, raising his voice to be heard above the rushing of the wind. Whatever colour the smoke-dragon turns will tell Newt a great deal about the real creature beneath the draconic facade. Just so long as it isn't greenish-yellow. That would mean that an actual dragon left that footprint.

But the smoke's not turning remotely green. Or yellow. Is it going to be purple, perhaps? That would indicate a magical being of some kind but no, it's losing the blue-ish hue now and going more...

The smoke dragon turns bright red. It hangs there, looking as if someone's learnt the trick of painting air.

Red. Bright red. Newt closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh.

"What does that mean?" Mrs Fitchett asks, grabbing hold of the gate post as a particularly fierce gust of wind threatens to blow her off her feet.

"It means that whatever this thing truly was, it wasn't a dragon," Newt shouts above the wind. No, it definitely wasn't a dragon. Mrs Fitchett was wrong about that. But it turns out that Newt was wrong, too. That bright red doesn't signify a dark creature. The true nature of the thing that left that footprint in the lane is something much worse. It was a human. A magical human. A wizard.

"But it was here?" Mrs Fitchett presses. "I really did see it?"

"Yes, you really saw it." And he really saw that smoke turn red. He still can't quite believe it, but he has a sinking feeling that he knows what it might mean. How many wizards have the power—or sheer recklessness—to transfigure someone into a dragon, or… could it be a dragon Animagus? It doesn't seem possible, but the smoke remains stubbornly red.

He _really_ wishes Tina were here.

Mrs Fitchett shakes her head. "Fancy that. Sometimes even I'm not sure of what's real and what's just in my head. Mostly, these days, things turn out not to be real." She gives Newt a sad smile. "I'm glad it wasn't a waste of your time. You're not like those other ones."

"I've been told that before," Newt says wryly. It's never been meant as a compliment before. He wonders just how many times Mrs Fitchett has reported a dragon sighting, and remembers the thickness of the file back at the Ministry.

A hard, cold splotch of rain hits Newt's cheek, and he looks up. The black cloud is right overhead. Newt frowns. How can it be there? It was still away to the south when he came back outside. No natural storm that he's ever known has covered so much ground so fast. But it's not a natural storm, is it? A great darkness was approaching, that's what the sea serpent said. Well, that cloud certainly qualifies.

The wind is getting stronger and stronger. Leaves and twigs are flying everywhere, and there's even a tree branch tumbling down the lane.

"Mrs Fitchett, I think we'd better go back inside," Newt shouts.

Mrs Fitchett nods her agreement, but before either of them can make it even as far as the garden gate a piece of tin roofing comes flying over the hedge on the other side of the lane and straight towards them.

Newt flings himself in front of Mrs Fitchett a split second before everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gwyllt Gwyntog_ means, very loosely, Windy Wild. Huge thanks to Nym for help with this, since I have no idea about Welsh.
> 
> You can also find me at [luthienebonyx.tumblr.com](http://luthienebonyx.tumblr.com/)


	6. Tina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She dreams of him. Not every night—not quite—but whenever she does, it's intense.

She dreams of him. Not every night—not quite—but whenever she does, it's intense. It starts so innocently, with a kiss on a dock while an ocean liner full of people waits. The kiss is hesitant to begin with. They're both unsure. But then Tina cups his face between her hands, leans in, and takes what she wants. She presses her lips to his cheek, and then again, finding each freckle in turn and bestowing every one with a lingering kiss. He stands there, bemused, and lets her have her way until she grows tired of the game. The time this takes varies from night to night and dream to dream. Some nights, she kisses her way lazily along his cheekbone, over the bridge of his nose, and across the other cheek until she's nuzzling his temple, teasing them both with the leisurely pace. Other nights, she only kisses a single freckle before she captures his lips in a kiss that's in no way hesitant.

And then she's leaving a trail of soft, butterfly kisses down his neck and his shirt is gone, as is the way in dreams. His skin, so pale beneath the freckles on his face, is even paler here. She finds a light dusting of freckles across his shoulders, leans in to kiss them too—and then Newt's reminding her that he's here, too. His fingers slide up into her hair as he kisses her, slowly and deliberately, letting her know that she's the complete focus of his attention. Tina shivers. It makes her insides twist with wanting, and she presses close until they're twined around each other so tightly that she can feel every last inch of him against her.

They say that everyone's the same height in bed, but it's even better when you're the same height standing up. Tina pulls back and reaches down to cup him through his pants. She strokes him, slow and firm, her arm just the right length, like they've been made to fit together like this. He gasps, and pushes into her hand, his fingers splayed across her hip as he pulls her close and his other hand goes up to find her breast.

And then she's looking down at him, lean and beautiful, stretched out across the bed beneath her, as she lowers herself onto his cock. She clenches around him as he fills the empty, aching space inside her, leans down to kiss him as they move together, gasps into his mouth as he drives up into her, as she takes his hand and holds it to her breast, as his fingers deftly find her nipple and stroke it to hardness and she moans, as she sits back and rides and rides and rides, up and down and always together, until he stiffens and cries out. She watches his face, drinking in the sight of him convulsing in pleasure as she feels the frantic pulse of his cock inside her, knowing that it's all because of her, that she alone can bring him to this point of complete abandonment.

It's the best feeling in the world—until a moment later, when Tina wakes to a lonely bed and an ache deep in her belly that has nothing to do with her menses. She rolls over in bed. The covers are a warm cocoon that she doesn't want to leave, but at the same time… She squirms, trying to relax, but it's no good. She's going to stay all keyed up and irritable if she doesn't do something about it. Tina slips a hand down below the waistband of her pyjama bottoms. She slides her fingers down through the light thatch of hair, down through her slippery folds—no real surprise that she's wet—to the very heart of her. She undoes a couple of buttons on her pyjama top, and slips her other hand up and under to her breasts. Her nipples are already hard, and she bites down on a gasp as her finger strokes over the little nub, and sends a jolt of feeling like lightning through her body to her clit.

She closes her eyes, lets her fingers stroke and circle, press and tug, and tries to catch the fading snippets of the dream, thinks of Newt and how he looked as he came, for her, just for h-

And then she's arching up and choking on a sob and shaking as she comes, her whole body clenching with longing.

She falls back against the mattress, panting and replete and unfulfilled, but the familiar lethargy fills her, just like almost every other time. She sighs into the pillow and floats in lazy warmth, in a hazy personal cloud where time and place have little meaning.

She doesn't know how much time passes until Queenie taps on her door and tells her breakfast will be ready in five minutes.

Tina pulls back the covers and gets out of bed, as ready to face the day as she'll ever be.

The vestiges of the dream haunt her all through the morning, starting at breakfast, when Queenie takes one look at her, giggles, "Oh, Teenie!" and winks— _winks!_ —as she pours the coffee.

Tina mutters something reproving and focuses on her cup of coffee. After another minute or so, she gets up from the table, her breakfast barely touched, and goes to get ready for work.

She's never dreamed of anyone before. Not like this. Not even Marcus, the man she'd once thought was going to be her once and future everything. She'd had a rude awakening from that particular dream, but even when she and Marcus shared the same bed for real it had never felt as all-consuming as the scenes her mind creates almost every night for herself and Newt to star in.

If things are this good with only a dream version, how much better would it be with the real man? Tina's a realist, so she tries to answer this question realistically. Reality rarely measures up to wishful thinking, however much you might be missing someone. They've never even kissed, never mind anything else that keeps happening in her dreams. He's probably a terrible kisser, all teeth and tongue and self-conscious awkwardness. He probably doesn't know the first thing about pleasing a woman in bed.

_But those things can be learned_ , Tina's mind helpfully points out. _And Newt's excellent with finessing finer details when something interests him. But that other thing? Chemistry? That can't be learned. You've either got that or you don't. You really think the two of you don't have it? Don't you remember how he looked at you that day on the dock? And how you looked at him?_

And that's the thing. Tina's never experienced that sort of acute awareness before. It's why she keeps writing back to Newt, keeps waiting anxiously for his next letter. And she hopes—oh, how she hopes—that it's the same for him, even while she knows that her letters are growing more stilted. She can't shake the memories of how utterly abandoned she is—they both are—in her dreams, so she goes too far the other way in her attempts not to let thoughts of them colour what she writes to Newt.

She misses him. How she wishes she could see him and talk to him, and maybe touch his hand or something, just to prove he's real this time. How long will it be until he comes back? From what he writes, the edits to his book seem never ending.

She wishes his next letter would arrive today, but of course it won't. Her last letter must have only just reached Newt, if it's arrived at all. Freddie the albatross won't have even started on the return journey across the Atlantic yet.

The thoughts go round and round in Tina's head, and she's seated at her desk, staring rather blindly down at a report about… something or other, when she becomes aware that someone's saying her name.

"Goldstein! Anyone home in there?"

She looks up hastily to find O'Brien, one of the other Aurors, standing by her desk and tapping a quill against his hand impatiently. He's tall and dark, and plenty of the other witches working at MACUSA think he's handsome as well. To Tina, he's just a colleague—one without enough freckles.

"Oh, uh, yeah, sorry, O'Brien. What's up?"

"It's this British thing. I heard you gotta contact at the Ministry of Magic, maybe?"

"British thing? What British thing?" Tina asks, her voice going sharper than she intends.

"You know, this monster storm or whatever it's s'posed to be."

"No, I don't know. What monster storm?" Her stomach clenches like she's swallowed a stone.

"It was a hurricane, or something like that. It hit the south of England this morning and swept right up the coast to... Glasgow? Or was it Scotland? Someplace way up north, anyway. The Ministry isn't saying much, except that it's not magical, it's just a freak of nature, and they've got everything under control."

"So… _they_ claim there's nothing to worry about," Tina says. She can see where this is going. She's worked at MACUSA more than long enough to recognise a government body going into official denial mode. Something's up. She just hopes like hell that Newt isn't mixed up in it somehow. He should be fine. He will have been safe in London at work at the Ministry on a Friday. Surely.

O'Brien nods. "That's what they claim. Picquery doesn't believe a single word of their denial, a'course. That kinda thing's got magic written all over it. England doesn't run to extreme weather naturally. Every single other hurricane or tidal wave or mini ice age in their recorded history has been set off by a rogue wizard or witch, and Picquery's betting that this one's no exception."

"Grindelwald?" Tina asks.

"That's what I'd put my money on," O'Brien agrees. "The Ministry's not letting on, but the No-Maj press is reporting there's people killed. A dozen or more."

"Grindelwald." Tina nods. "I do know someone at the Ministry. He's in the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau, but he has some personal contacts in the MLE. I'll send a distascribo asking him—discreetly—to put out a few feelers. Something's going on."

"Thanks, Goldstein. I owe you one." O'Brien flashes her a dazzling smile that is clearly intended to bowl her over.

"I'll let you know once I hear anything back." Her voice is cool and level, in stark contrast to the frantic beating of her heart. She gets out her notepad and starts composing an extremely carefully worded message to Newt.

"Uh, okay then," O'Brien says, sounding a little surprised.

When Tina looks up from her notepad, he's gone.

It doesn't take her long to get something down on paper.

> _Dear Newt,_
> 
> _~~I'm worried~~ We're all very concerned here at MACUSA to hear about the ~~huge~~ storm that hit England (and Scotland too?) earlier today. Please reply ~~at once~~ as soon as possible to ~~reassure~~ let me know that you're ~~not injured~~ all right. ~~I'm worried~~ I hope that the storm is not actually as bad as is being reported. ~~Please tell me~~ Would I be right in thinking that it was somewhat similar to the memorable storm we experienced while you were in New York, at least in its  basic nature? I imagine that Magical Law Enforcement must be looking into it, just in case._
> 
> _Yours_
> 
>  
> 
> _Tina Goldstein_

Tina looks down at all the crossed out words, and the barely adequate ones that remain, and hopes it's enough. Enough for Newt to work out what she's actually asking in that second-last sentence, and enough for him to see that she won't feel right until she hears from him and knows he's safe.

She marches down to the Department of International Magical Relations. This time, IMR is slightly busier than it was last time she was here. Most of the offices are at least inhabited. She jumps as an imperious male voice demands that she come in at once, but then his hapless secretary replies in a quavering voice, and a moment later the office door slams shut.

Tina finds Miss Mahoney, the director's personal secretary, sitting behind a desk outside the director's office, typing with practised efficiency.

"I need this sent on the distascribo typewriter urgently," Tina says without preamble, holding out her message.

Miss Mahoney receives this blunt directive, and the message, without turning a hair. "The British business?" she enquires.

"You've heard about that."

"A'course. This is the Department of International Magical Relations. Besides, haven't you noticed how busy it is around here today? They're all runnin' around tryin' to work out exactly what the Ministry of Magic isn't telling them."

"Uh, yeah," Tina says, privately thinking that O'Brien would be asking who died if MLE was ever as quiet as this.

"And this message is going to the British Ministry of Magic, urgent—and private and confidential?" Miss Mahoney asks as she looks the page over.

"Yes," Tina says.

"I don't have time to take you through how to use the device again, but you're a smart young witch. I'm sure you can remember how." Miss Mahoney scribbles a few lines on a piece of scrap paper and hands it and the draft message back to Tina. "Use this key sequence for the destination, urgency and privacy settings before you type your message, and don't forget to hit the carriage return to end transmission when you're done. Otherwise, the next message typed on the distascribo may not end up where it's supposed to." Miss Mahoney is the voice of weary experience as she says this.

"Of course," Tina says, wondering which senior manager forgot to hit the carriage return, and how many times he's failed to do it. "Thanks," she adds, and doesn't waste any time getting to the distascribo room.

She follows Miss Mahoney's instructions to the letter, and types her message quickly. Once she hits the carriage return, the message flies off the carriage and folds itself up, settling neatly on top of the draft on the desk in front of her. It's done.

_Please answer soon,_ she thinks. _Please, Newt. Don't leave me wondering._

But he doesn't answer, and Tina can do nothing but wonder.

She spends the first hour silently reminding herself that it's too soon to expect a reply, even to a message marked 'urgent'.

She spends the second hour expecting a reply at any moment.

She spends the third hour telling herself that Newt's probably at a meeting or something and doesn't know there's an urgent message from New York waiting on his desk.

She spends the hour after that reminding herself of Occam's Razor—that the simplest answer is usually the correct one—while chewing her fingernails down to the quick.

By the time five o'clock comes around she's ready to scream. She doesn't, though. It's well into the evening in London now. She won't hear anything from there until sometime tomorrow at the earliest. For the first time since she got back her job at MLE, Tina leaves the office at her official finishing time.

It's a mistake. Queenie isn't home yet, so there's no-one to talk to, and now she's no longer at work she doesn't have to make herself attempt to focus on anything but Newt, and the lack of a response to her message.

Tina mopes around the apartment, letting her imagination run wild, and thinking that Occam's Razor can go jump in the lake anytime it wants.

The storm swept up the coast. Which coast? Tina doesn't even know that much. It had left people dead, that's what O'Brien told her this morning. There are millions of people in Britain. Tina knows that. Almost all of those people will be fine. But the unlucky ones have to be someone.

Newt is the kind of person that things happen to. She knows that, too. He should have been in the office this morning, but it's all too likely that he wasn't. It would only take news of some fantastic creature for him to set off with that case of his, eyes bright with interest and expectation.

And Grindelwald knows exactly how much every magical creature means to Newt. If he wanted to get back at Newt for the confrontation in the New York subway that day that he was arrested, Grindelwald would probably use some fantastic beast as a lure.

Tina considers screaming after all, just to let out a little of the feeling that's boiling up inside her, but then Queenie comes in through the door, laden with paper bags large and small. A wonderful aroma of sugar and cinnamon, apple and orange, and fresh-baked bread fills the apartment.

Queenie never buys cookies or cakes, let alone bread. Baking her own is one of her great joys in life. There's only one reason why Queenie would be buying baked goods.

Tina whirls around to face her sister. "You've been seeing Jacob!" The words emerge in a torrent of accusation.

Queenie doesn't deny it. She doesn't say anything at all. Instead, she deposits her purchases on the dining table and then walks over and wraps her arms around Tina.

"It's all right, Teenie. It's all right," she says.

Tina stands stiffly in her sister's embrace for a long moment. "It's Newt," she admits finally, chin wobbling, and all the fight goes out of her. She lays her head on Queenie's shoulder and most definitely doesn't cry.

"I know." Queenie strokes Tina's hair soothingly. "He'll be all right. You'll see."

"You can't know that," Tina mumbles into the lapel of Queenie's coat, but she's already feeling a little better.

"No, I can't. But this is Newt we're talking about. And besides, he's English. A little rain ain't gonna make him melt."

Tina laughs weakly and pulls back. She takes her spare handkerchief out of her pocket and blows her nose. She's starting to feel a little silly. The only thing she knows for sure is that Newt didn't answer her message the moment it arrived. There could be any number of perfectly harmless reasons why he hasn't replied yet.

"Yeah, but sometimes you just gotta let it all out," Queenie says.

Tina folds her handkerchief up and puts it back in her pocket, and mentally tries to do something similar to thoughts of magical storms and dark wizards. "So, you've been seeing Jacob," she says again, much more calmly than the first time.

"No," Queenie says, as if the evidence isn't sitting right there on the table. "I've been _watching_ him. His bakery opened today. I bought some stuff and he said he hoped I'd enjoy it. That's the first time I've spoken to him since… you know." She shrugs eloquently.

Tina nods. "I know. Just don't… don't let it go any further. Don't do anything you shouldn't. I really don't want you to get hurt, Queenie. MACUSA takes this sort of thing seriously. The law's the law, and there are good reasons why it's that way."

"I won't do anything stupid," Queenie assures her.

"That's not the same as not doing anything illegal." Tina stares hard at Queenie. "I'm an Auror, remember?"

Queenie rolls her eyes. "I won't do anything against the law. There. Are you happy now?" Tina winces, because she's not happy at all, and Queenie gasps and claps her hand over her mouth. "I said that all wrong. Why don't I make some coffee and we can try these pastries? They smell real good."

Tina tries to smile, but the corners of her mouth go down instead of up. "Great idea. But you go get changed. I'll make the coffee," she offers.

Queenie shakes her head. "Nuh-uh. No offence, Teen, but we've both tasted your coffee before. You get the pastries ready while I take off my coat, and then _I'll_ make the coffee."

"Done."

Queenie disappears into her bedroom and Tina sets to work with her wand, covering the table with a cloth, and retrieving plates, several pairs of small silver tongs and two cake forks from the sideboard. Soon, pastries, cakes and cookies are laid out on cake plates along the length of the table, waiting to be sampled, and there are two smaller plates set out on either side. It looks like enough to feed a small army, or at least a good-sized tea party, instead of just two witches who should know better than to eat such things so close to the dinner hour.

She's all too aware that the food is only a distraction, for both of them, but right now it's one that Tina is willing to take.

Surely she'll hear from Newt soon. Surely there'll be a message waiting on her desk when she arrives at work tomorrow morning. Surely there's no need to worry. 

Surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A real great storm or hurricane hit Great Britain on Friday, 28th January 1927, starting at Land's End in the far south of England and moving in a line to John O'Groats in the far north of Scotland. At least 20 people were killed. 
> 
> The real storm did not, of course, include any magical components. (That's what we tell the Muggles, anyway.)


	7. Tina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina has a different sort of dream. Meanwhile, things are happening in the waking world.

Tina doesn't sleep well that night. She stays up late reading, a book whose title she's forgotten open at the same page in her lap until nearly midnight. After she turns off the light, she tosses and turns and half-awakens, dreaming without quite sleeping. It's not the usual dream. There's nothing embarrassing about this one, and nothing good about it, either. Newt's in it, fully clothed, arms outstretched and calling her name, in time to the ticking of the clock. _Tick, tick, tick._ _Tina, Tina, Tina_. It's a minute to midnight. She tries to catch hold of him but a deathly cold wind blows him farther and farther from her grasp. _Tick, tick, tick._ It doesn't matter how fast she runs after him, she's never going to reach him. _Tick, tick, tick._ She's running in place, never moving closer. Newt is so far away now that she can barely make him out in the distance. He's going to be lost to her, lost forever, and she never even told him… anything. _Tick, tick, tick._ The clock starts striking and the ticking gets louder. She has to stop it. Somehow. Any way she can. She reaches for the clock, pulls the hands right off it, but it keeps ticking relentlessly on, counting the seconds until Newt is gone completely. _Tick, tick, t-_

Tina sits up in bed, breathing heavily. It's a dream. Just a dream.

_Tick, tick, tick._

She nearly jumps out of her skin, and claps a hand over her mouth, muffling most of her scream.

_Tap, tap, tap._ It's not a clock. It's coming from the window.

Tina fumbles for the light.

_Tap, tap, tap._ Yes, there it is again. Definitely a tap and not a tick. And that shadow outside the window. It's a bird!

"Freddie!" Tina is pushing up the sash before it occurs to her sleep-addled mind that there's no way that even an albatross could have made it from London to New York in a matter of hours.

An owl flies in through the open window and perches on the end of Tina's bed. It's a screech owl. Tina recognises the ear-tufts. MACUSA has some in its postal fleet, and this one is holding what looks very like a MACUSA envelope in its beak.

Tina gets an owl treat from the drawer in her nightstand—she's had late night mail deliveries from the office before—and exchanges it for the envelope. She stares at it as the owl flies off again. It _is_ a MACUSA envelope. It's stamped "urgent" and "private and confidential"—just like the distascribo she sent to Newt today.

With trembling hands, Tina rips open the envelope. The message inside is typed. It's a distascribo. It's been sent by the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau at the Ministry of Magic in London. It's from—Tina's eyes flick down to the signature at the bottom—Ivan Wilberforce?

She sits down heavily on the edge of the bed and begins to read.

> _Dear Miss Goldstein_
> 
> _I have taken the liberty of breaking the privacy seal on your communication to Mr Newton Scamander of this Bureau, since Mr Scamander is not in a position to do so himself. I gather from the contents of your letter that you are personally acquainted with Mr Scamander, and therefore I regret to inform you that Mr Scamander was injured while out on fieldwork during the recent inclement weather. He is currently a patient at St Mungo's Hospital For Magical Maladies and Injuries. The healers inform us that he is in a stable condition. Please do not concern yourself further about his current state._

Stable? What does 'stable' mean? It doesn't tell you anything about the actual state of the patient. It just says that he's not getting any worse than he is now. Newt could be at death's door and still be stable! Or he could have broken a leg or an arm or… However he's been injured, it's serious enough for him to be admitted to the hospital, that much is clear. And if Newt were sitting up in bed, drinking tea, Mr Wilberforce surely would have said so. But he hasn't.

> _As to the question of the storm itself, as I am sure you have been informed, there was nothing unusual about it. It was a simple force of nature, not magic. As the Minister informed Madam Picquery yesterday, offers of assistance are appreciated, as ever, but are not required in this case. The Minister would be grateful if you would pass on this message to Madam Picquery, and he repeats that all offers of assistance from MACUSA have been and will be refused._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Ivan Wilberforce_   
>  _Principal Dragon Wrangler,_   
>  _Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau, Beast Division,_   
>  _Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,_   
>  _Ministry of Magic,_   
>  _London, England, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland_

Tina reads the second half of the letter in mounting anger. They're warning her off because they don't think she's worth giving a proper answer to. They don't think Newt really means anything to her. They probably think she met Newt once or twice when he was in New York, and now Madam Picquery is using that slight acquaintance for MACUSA's benefit.

And yes, Tina will be the first one to admit that she did send that message partly to get information about what was going on at the Ministry, but not just because of that, or even mostly because of that.

Newt is far, far away, in the hospital, with unknown injuries. He's not getting any worse, but it sounds like he's not getting any better, either. Just the thought of it makes Tina feel sick to the stomach, and helpless in a way that she hates.

Well, she's not helpless. She looks down at the letter and the anger wells up in her all over again. This time, she welcomes it. Worrying won't help. What was it Newt said to her once? That worrying just means that you suffer twice? It sounds just like him. Tina half-smiles, and angrily blinks away a tear.

They can warn off a single Auror, and Madam Picquerry and even the whole of MACUSA if they dare, but they're going to find it much harder to stop Tina Goldstein, private citizen who just happens to work as an Auror for MACUSA.

She summons quill and ink from the sideboard in the living room, and the notepad that Queenie uses to write her shopping lists, and starts writing furiously. Mr Ivan Wilberforce, Chief Wrangler of Dragons, or whatever the hell he calls himself, isn't going to know what hit him.

 

~*~

 

Tina arrives at work less than half an hour later. It still isn't even 6.00 am. Red is already on duty in the elevator. He yawns and asks why she's here and not still in bed.

"Work," Tina says shortly.

"I'd never've guessed," Red says dryly, and reaches with his cane for the button that will take them to the MLE.

"Major Investigation Department thanks, Red."

Red considers her for a moment. Tina can almost see 'At this hour?' written in glowing letters above his head, but he doesn't say anything more than, "Okay," and pushes the button for the Major Investigation Department.

Tina finds Madam Picquery in the Major Investigation Department, just as she'd expected. With her are Burton Trilby, a senior Auror currently acting in Mr Graves' job as the head of Magical Law Enforcement, and Mr Murcutt, the head of International Magical Relations.

"I hope you have a good reason for this intrusion, Goldstein?" Madam Picquery raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

Tina hands her the distascribo from Mr Wilberforce. Madam Picquery's other eyebrow rises as she reads it.

"So Hector has something to hide. He's never been very good at subtlety, but I thought he knew better than to try anything as obvious as this with me."

Madam Picquery looks up from the letter, straight at Tina. Taking their lead from Madam Picquery, the two wizards look straight at Tina, too, and suddenly she's the focus of every eye in the room.

"I've written a reply," Tina says, some of her bravado leaving her. It was easier when she was sitting at home, stabbing her quill into a blameless piece of paper. "I haven't sent it yet." She hands the draft over to Madam Picquery.

Madam Picquery reads through it and then looks up and straight at Tina again. This time she smiles, though it's a calculating smile with little warmth to it. "How… interesting. And useful. I had no idea that you and Mr Scamander had formed such a strong attachment in so short a time."

"It was a real whirlwind romance," Tina says. And she's not lying, not really. The feelings are real, even if most of the rest of it only happened in her thoughts and dreams. "We were going to wait before making it official, but now…"

"Well then, let me be the first to congratulate you. Of course you need to be at your fiance's side. Barnabas will organise a portkey for you—won't you Barnabas?"

Mr Murcutt blinks. "Of course, Madam President. I'll get my best people onto it." An older wizard dressed to impress in purple velvet, with an equally impressive-looking girth that provides mute testimony of many long lunches, the talk around MACUSA is that Barnabas Murcutt ended up as head of International Magical Relations because of his extensive intercontinental pureblood family connections rather than because of any innate talent at diplomacy. He probably didn't even know until now that his department has responsibility for international portkeys. "When did you want the portkey, exactly?"

"As soon as the Ministry of Magic agrees to it. An international portkey requires the consent of both countries involved, but I can't really see how they could object. It wouldn't do to stand in the way of young love at a time of personal crisis, now would it?" Madam Picquery says, her expression about as innocent as a Kneazle in an owlery.

"That would be churlish in the extreme, Madam President—and bound to reflect badly on the Minister for Magic if the newspapers were to get hold of the story," Trilby puts in, his tone leaving no doubt that he will ensure that this would be the outcome in such a case. He's of medium height and build, with the sort of face that blends easily into a crowd. Burton Trilby is No-Maj born, and has reached the heights of MACUSA's hierarchy purely on his own merit—and possibly because, it's whispered, he's used his expert investigative talents on his superiors from time to time when a little leverage was required to advance his career.

"Excellent," Madam Picquery says. "And while the purpose of this journey is, of course, purely personal, Goldstein, I'm sure we can rely on you to send the occasional communication back, to let us know how you and Mr Scamander and his colleagues at the Ministry of Magic are doing? Or anything else of interest that you might encounter while you're there? I'm sure the Minister would never knowingly keep any important news from us, but sometimes details can slip through the cracks despite everyone's best efforts."

"Of course, Madam President," Tina says. Grindelwald's name has not been mentioned by anyone, no-one's even referred to the storm, but her instructions are clear.

"That's settled, then," Madam Picquery says briskly. "Goldstein, you'd better go home and pack. The portkey will be delivered there once everything has been arranged, since this journey is a private matter. Burton will distribute the cases you're currently working on among the other Aurors."

Mr Trilby nods in acknowledgement.

"Yes, Madam President," Tina says. "But perhaps I should go down to IMR and send my message to Mr Wilberforce before-"

"No, there's no need to send that distascribo to the Dragon Bureau, beautifully to the point though it was. Barnabas's people will liaise with their counterparts in the Ministry and let them know you're coming. Barnabas," Madam Picquery adds, without pausing for breath, "I'd like things to be set in motion at once, if you please. And Burton? Stay behind. There are some additional issues that we need to discuss."

The three of them chorus their acquiescence, and Tina wastes no time in getting out of there. Red doesn't comment on the way back down in the elevator. Neither does Tina. As soon as she reaches the lobby, she Apparates home.

There's no sign of Queenie when Tina arrives back at the apartment, but after a moment her bedroom door opens, and Queenie emerges, blinking sleepily, a silk robe thrown hastily over her nightie.

"Teenie? What's up?" She looks Tina up and down, taking in her coat and hat. "What time is it? Did I oversleep?"

"No, I-"

"Got up after you heard from the Ministry about-" Queenie's eyes widen, and she suddenly looks much more awake. "And then you wrote- You said you and Newt were-" She pauses, her mouth forming a perfect "O". "You're going to England? Today? Tina, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

"I don't know," Tina says simply. "I just know that I have to do it. I don't know if he's at death's door or if he's just cracked some ribs or… anything, really, except that he's 'stable'. Whatever's happened to him, I have to see for myself, and this is the only way I can do it." She stands there, open and vulnerable, not trying to hide anything from Queenie, just letting her in to see it all for herself.

"Yeah, I know you do," Queenie says, nodding, her expression softening back into its usual easy sympathy. She bites her lip. "I'll miss you," she adds in a small voice.

"And I'll miss you," Tina says, her voice quavering just a little on the last word. For once, she's the one to initiate the hug. "Are you sure you'll be okay without me?" she asks, her cheek against Queenie's golden curls.

"Course I will be. I'm all grown up now, Teen. We both are. That's why you've gotta go to London, and I've gotta stay here." Queenie steps back, but she holds Tina at arm's length and looks deeply into her the eyes. "We'll both do what we gotta do, and then, when we're done, we'll see each other again." She reaches up and pushes a stray lock of hair back behind Tina's ear.

Tina utters a sound that has no words in it. All this time, she's remembered Newt doing just exactly that right before he left her that day at the dock, and now she's going to remember Queenie doing the same thing the whole time she's away.

"Gotta make sure you don't forget me," Queenie says, with a watery chuckle.

"As if I ever could!" Tina protests, and inhales deeply to stop herself from sniffling.

"Just as well. Now go get packed while I cook. You'll need a good breakfast before your journey."

"Yes, ma'am!" Tina says, and now they're grinning mischievously at each other like the schoolgirls they once were, though Queenie was always the one with more mischief in her.

Tina turns quickly away, and goes to her room to pack.

 

~*~

 

An hour or so later Tina and Queenie are seated at the dining table, having a last cup of coffee together, when there's a businesslike rap at the door.

Tina shares a look with Queenie, and gets up to answer the door.

A young-ish witch, dark hair scraped back in a tight bun, stands there. "Dolores Honey, Department of International Magical Relations," she says by way of introduction. She's dressed in a severe outfit of unrelieved black. With a name like hers, she probably tries to look as un-honey-like as possible while she's at work.

"Tina Goldstein," Tina says, and steps aside to let Miss Honey in.

"Queenie Goldstein," Queenie says, getting up from the table.

Miss Honey nods curtly in acknowledgement, and turns back to Tina.

"I trust you're ready to depart, Miss Goldstein?"

"My suitcase is just over there," Tina says, pointing.

"Good," Miss Honey says, setting a voluminous black bag down on the table and digging inside it. She pulls out an unremarkable brown china teapot with a chip in the spout and places it on the table beside the bag. "You may find that taking a portkey over such a large distance adversely affects you a little more than usual. Despite the extremely short notice, we've arranged for someone from the Ministry of Magic to meet you at the other end. He or she will assist you with recovery from the portkey journey, if required, and ensure that you reach your ultimate destination safely." Miss Honey sniffs. "Not that they've deigned to tell me where that might be."

"It's no real secret," Tina says. "I'm going to visit my fiance. He's in St Mungo's Hospital in London." She's proud that she can hold a bland expression and say both of those sentences quite calmly, as if they're just two pieces of quite ordinary information and not something that makes her heart race with both dread and anticipation.

"My, someone's in Picquery's good books, aren't they?" Miss Honey says curiously. "You've set the whole department on its ear. I haven't seen the place so busy in ages. Mr Murcutt himself dealt with the Ministry of Magic to arrange this portkey, and then, when the Ministry declined to cooperate, Madam Picquery spoke with the Minister for Magic directly. I don't know what she said, but five minutes later I was told to deliver the portkey here."

"Madam Picquery has been very kind," Tina says carefully.

"Hmmn," Miss Honey agrees. Or maybe she disagrees. It's hard to tell. She takes out her wand and points it at the teapot. " _Portus_ ," she says, and the teapot glows a brilliant blue for a moment before settling back into its previous drab brown. Miss Honey turns to Tina. "Right then, Miss Goldstein. The portkey is ready whenever you are."

Tina glances round at Queenie.

"So this is it," Queenie says, and comes over to hug Tina tight.

"Yeah," Tina says, and hugs her back just as tightly. "I'll be in touch as soon as I can. Take care while I'm gone."

"You take care."

"We don't have all day, you know," Miss Honey interrupts.

Tina nods and, releasing Queenie, picks up her suitcase. "Goodbye, Queenie," she says.

"Goodbye. Say hi to Newt for me!" Queenie says, smiling bravely.

"Yeah," Tina says, and thinks, _If I can_. She swallows.

"Just touch the portkey anywhere. The spell will do the rest," Miss Honey instructs.

"I know how a portkey works," Tina says, a touch sharply, and wraps her hand around the teapot's spout.

And then a sudden jerk knocks all the breath out of her lungs, her feet leave the ground and she's being dragged impossibly fast through a kaleidoscope world of blurring colours and rushing wind where the only solid things are herself, her suitcase and the teapot. Tina holds on for dear life and waits for it to be over, but on it goes, one second more, and another, and another. Just as she's wondering if she's going to be lost in this in between nothingness forever, her feet hit the ground, and then she's on her knees, puking her guts out into the...snow?

When at last it feels like there's absolutely no more breakfast left inside her, Tina looks around her blearily and sees that she's out of doors, surrounded by leafless trees beneath a light covering of snow. There's a park bench right beside her, which tells her that she's probably in London somewhere rather than lost in the middle of nowhere.

"Ah, Miss Goldstein, I presume?" says a very British sort of voice from behind her. A male voice, somehow familiar.

Tina grabs hold of the bench and pulls herself up and onto her feet. Still holding onto the back of the bench to keep her balance, she turns around to find a glass of water and a large, snowy white handkerchief being held out to her by the man who must own the voice. He looks as familiar as his voice sounds. He has dark hair rather than reddish brown, he's a fraction shorter than Newt with a solider build, and there's no sign of a single freckle on his face, but the bluey-green eyes are just the same. The look in them is… wary.

"You're Theseus," Tina says, because it seems impossible that he could be anyone else. She takes the water and the handkerchief gratefully.

"At your service, Miss Goldstein," Newt's brother replies, and executes a stiff little bow.

Is he mocking her? He's just watched her throwing up on the ground, and the knees of her pants are unpleasantly cold and wet from where she knelt in the snow. She must look a lot less than her best. It's not exactly an auspicious introduction. Tina takes a deep sip from the glass and rinses out her mouth, turning away to spit out the water. It's a relief to get the foul taste out of her mouth. She dabs her lips with the handkerchief and hands it and the glass back to Theseus.

"Thank you," she says.

The glass and handkerchief both vanish with a negligent wave of Theseus's wand. Another wand-wave clears the bench of snow and produces a thick blanket to cover the wet slats. Theseus indicates that Tina should sit.

She does, and clears up the place where she was sick on the snow beside the bench with a negligent wand-wave of her own.

"Why are you here?" Theseus asks conversationally as he settles beside her. His voice is pleasant, but that wary look is still in his eyes.

"To see Newt. Surely the Minister told you that." Tina frowns.

"Oh yes. I know what Madam Picquery _told_ the Minister." Theseus's lip curls, and the look in his eyes is suddenly cold and hard. "But we're both Aurors, so I'm sure you know how this looks to me. You send an unsubtle letter to my brother, asking about the nature of the storm and our response to it, and then, after you're expressly told that your interest is unwarranted, you suddenly announce—oh so conveniently—that you and my brother have a secret understanding and you need to take a portkey here 'to be with him'. And since Newt is in no condition to confirm or deny the truth of this… well, here we are."

Tina listens to Theseus in growing indignation. She's cold and wet and nauseated, she's travelled thousands of miles to get here, and all she wants to do is see Newt for herself and then collapse in a chair somewhere close by, but this, this… _Englishman_ doesn't trust her. Her indignation is somehow all the greater because he's so nearly right in most of the details, while being so totally wrong about her motives.

"He can't confirm or deny… He's unconscious, then?" She's been trying so very hard not to think about anything specific to do with Newt, to focus on all the preparations for the journey, to focus on _getting there_. And now she is there—here—and instead of going to see Newt she has to deal with this?

"Luckily for you."

Tina is all out of patience. She gets up, and Theseus immediately does the same. Tina's pretty tall, and even in her sensible low heels she can look Theseus Scamander right in the eye, so she does. "Look, Mr Scamander, I really don't care what you think you know about me." She sighs. "I could tell you that you're wrong, but we both know that my denials aren't going to change your mind. Regardless of what you think about the situation, though, the President of MACUSA has arranged with your Minister for Magic for me to see Newt. You've apparently been tasked with getting me to the hospital, so I suggest we get on with it."

Theseus considers her thoughtfully for a moment. "All right," he says, and offers her his arm.

Tina picks up her suitcase, tucks her arm through his, and there's a loud pop as they Disapparate.

 

~*~

 

Newt's face looks pale beneath his freckles. The stark white linen of the pillowcase behind his head, and the white bandage around his head, makes him look even paler. Apart from the bandage, he appears uninjured, at least of what Tina can see of him.

This wasn't how she pictured their next meeting.

"Oh, Newt," she says, sitting down in the chair by his bed and taking his hand in both of hers. "What happened?" she whispers to Theseus, who has come up to stand beside her chair.

"He was hit by some roofing material during the storm. It's given him a nasty bruise on the forehead and he has a few cuts and scratches, but otherwise he's unharmed. He was trying to protect an old witch he was visiting on Ministry business, or so she says."

It sounds just like Newt. Of course he'd try to protect the weak and vulnerable, while giving very little thought to his own safety. "He hasn't woken up at all since it happened?"

"Wondering if he's given you away?" Theseus smirks. Tina looks up, eyeing him steadily, and after a second he adds, "He hasn't awakened properly, but he does murmur things—I haven't been quite able to make out what he's saying —and his eyes flicker from time to time, as if he's about to wake."

Tina nods, and doesn't say anything more. Her eyes are on Newt's face. There's no sign of any eye flickering right now, or murmuring. He's breathing steadily, chest rising and falling, and beneath her fingers she feels the flutter of his pulse. He's real and alive, better than any dream. Or he will be, when—not if—he wakes up.

She's not sure how long she sits there like that. Five minutes, ten, half an hour. It's all one piece, all waiting.

Eventually, Theseus breaks the spell. "I thought I might go and get a cup of tea," he says quietly, touching a hand to her shoulder. "May I fetch one for you as well?"

"What? Oh, thank you. Yes." Tina nods, and gets up to stretch her legs as Theseus disappears out the door.

It's deathly quiet and still in here now that it's just the two of them. They're in a small side ward of only four beds, off the main 'miscellaneous' ward—apparently even the Healers aren't quite sure how to categorise Newt—and Newt's bed is the only one that's occupied.

Tina goes over to the window and looks out. London is busy far below, a big, bustling city going about its business and completely oblivious of and indifferent to her presence. Of course Tina's used to a big city; she's lived in one most of her life. But this isn't her city. It's-

"Mmrph?"

Tina whirls around to find Newt moving restlessly beneath the covers. She hurries over to the bed.

"It's all right, Newt. It's okay," she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and laying a hand over his. She rubs the back of his hand in what she hopes is a soothing way.

Newt's eyes flutter open, bleary and bright. He looks up at her and Tina's not sure if he's really even seeing her.

"Tina," he says, and smiles, a heart-stopping smile that hides nothing. And before she can think of what to say or do, he pulls her down to him and kisses her, full on the lips.

Captured. He's captured her lips. Tina's a willing captive. She kisses him back, cupping his jaw in her hand, feeling the prick of bristles against her palm as his mouth moves against hers. Newt isn't an awkward kisser. He's confident and assured and everything she's never expected him to be. His hand slips up to cup her breast and Tina's nipple goes hard in an instant. She sighs against Newt's lips. The world has shrunk and now it's just his mouth and hers, hot and wet and breathless, his hand rubbing her, his body close against hers, and she doesn't care if-

He pulls back, so suddenly that his nose bumps hers in passing. The little flare of pain shocks Tina out of the spell of the kiss and she opens her eyes.

Newt is staring at her, eyes still bright and feverish, but he looks as if he's seeing her properly now—and that he's horrified. With himself? With her?

"Tina," he croaks. "You're here? That's really you?"

Tina nods, because she can't find the breath to speak. She feels hot all over and her lips are throbbing gently, aching for the return of what's just been taken away. She clears her throat. Twice. "Yes, it's me," she says.

Newt looks down. "I do apologise," he tells the quilt. "I didn't-"

"You didn't expect me, I know," Tina says quickly, before he has the chance to give the game away. Theseus will be back at any moment. "MACUSA arranged a portkey for me with the Ministry, once I got word that you'd been injured. I'm afraid I had to tell them we're engaged." She reaches out and squeezes his hand, hard, in warning. "I know we weren't going to tell anyone until after your book was published, but… I needed to be here with you." At least that last bit is nothing but the truth.

Newt blinks. He opens his mouth as if to say something, clearly thinks better of it, shuts his mouth, and looks down at the quilt again. But only for a moment. He looks up and over her shoulder towards the doorway and his eyes widen. Then he takes a deep breath, looks Tina square in the eyes, and says, "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too." Tina smiles tremulously and squeezes his hand again, gently this time.

Someone clears his throat ostentatiously behind them.

"So, you've returned to us. Welcome back, little brother," says Theseus.

Tina wonders how long he's been standing there, and how much he saw. Apparently, he saw enough, because he comes over, hands Tina a china mug filled with tea, and adds, "And it appears I must welcome you to the family, sister-to-be." He kisses her on the cheek, but he doesn't take his eyes off her once he moves away again.

Theseus still doesn't trust her, that's clear. That's fine with Tina. She's not sure that she trusts him, either. But for now, she doesn't care about Theseus or what he thinks, or even that he's here at all.

She looks over at Newt, who's gone back to not meeting her eyes, and her lips tingle in a physical reminder of something that wasn't a dream, and maybe as a promise of things to come, too.


	8. Newt and Tina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various permutations and combinations of witches, wizards and magical creatures at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

He can't look at her. Oh, Merlin, he _can't_ look at her. Newt's told himself for weeks now that the next time he saw Tina, he would kiss her. But he'd always assumed that that would be at the end of a visit to New York, after he'd… well, after he'd courted her a bit. Flowers, maybe, and dinner at a restaurant in a fine hotel. He probably wouldn't have done it properly—he'll never be _suave_ —but he would have tried. And at the end of his visit, he would have given her plenty of warning, in case she didn't welcome it, and then he would have kissed her very softly on the lips, just for a moment. Maybe he would have touched her as well. _Chastely_ , of course. A hand on her shoulder or something...

Instead, he'd damn near ravished her. Pawed at her, worse than any beast. At least with beasts, both parties know what to expect. Instinct tells them what to do. They're born with the knowledge. Tina hadn't been expecting anything like that. She'd been sitting there, quite innocently, and then Newt had opened his eyes and _lunged_. It's no excuse at all that he'd thought she was a dream. He should have known. The dream Tina is perfect, too perfect, and usually all too naked, and willing, always willing, whereas this Tina had been sitting there in her usual blouse and trousers, with her hair in need of a brush, beautiful in a way that the dream could never hope to match and—and—

 _She kissed you back_ , he points out to himself. _She cupped your face and kissed you back and she didn't pull away when you touched her. She leaned in, and sighed and—_

 _That was because Theseus could see. Because she said that we're engaged so that she could get here fast,_ he silently argues back.

But why did Tina need to get here so quickly? And why is Theseus here, for that matter? Last time Newt heard, Theseus was out in the field, doing something very hush-hush, so probably to do with dark wizards rather than rogue dragons or anyth—

Memory floods back and he sees it all as though it's a moving photograph. The dragon! And the storm! He'd been out in the middle of it with Mrs… an old witch whose name he can't remember, and Pickett had nearly blown away.

Pickett!

He sits up and looks around wildly. He's in a hospital room and not his bedroom at home. Tina said something about his being injured, didn't she? So he's at St Mungo's, and Pickett and his suitcase are… where? They're nowhere to be seen. Newt pulls the covers back, and gets out of bed. Or, rather, he tries to. His legs don't want to work the way they should, and he feels light-headed. He rather thinks he might pass out. Or throw up.

And then Tina is there, and Theseus too, on either side of him, holding him firmly, preventing him from getting up and stopping him from falling down all at once.

"What's the matter Newt?" Tina asks. "No, stay there. You shouldn't be trying to get out of bed just yet." Between them, Tina and Theseus get Newt back into bed. "What's the matter?" Tina repeats as she smooths the covers back over his legs.

Newt falls back against the pillows because he doesn't seem able to do anything else. His head is spinning and feels too heavy for his neck to keep holding up. "My suitcase," he says. "And Pickett. Pickett was in my pocket when…"

"When you got hit by some sort of roofing material in the storm," Tina finishes for him, when she realises that he doesn't remember.

"Pickett?" Theseus asks, though he looks more resigned than confused. He knows Newt better than almost anybody. "What sort of creature is Pickett?"

"He's a Bowtruckle," Tina says, getting up and going over to the plain white wardrobe in the corner. She opens it, to reveal Newt's blue coat on a hanger, and the case stowed safely below it. As they look on, the coat moves alarmingly, as if possessed, but then Pickett emerges from the breast pocket and climbs up to perch on the crossbar of the coat hanger. He sits there, small legs hanging down like a child on a swing, and chitters angrily at Newt.

Newt heaves a sigh of relief, but it's short-lived as another worry follows close on the heels of the first. "How long have I been here?" he asks. It must be more than a few hours for Tina to be here, even if she came by portkey.

"Since yesterday. A little over twenty-four hours," Theseus replies.

So his creatures haven't been fed since yesterday morning. They must be ravenous. And yet the case shows no sign of disturbance. At the very least, the Niffler should have made a break for it by now.

"Could you bring me my case, Tina?" Newt asks quietly, dreading what he's going to find.

Tina does so at once, setting it down on the chair by the bed. "Shall I open it?" she asks.

Newt nods. "Thank you. But be ready to cast a shield charm, just in case?"

Tina nods in turn.

"Should I ask what you have in there, Newt?" Theseus asks, looking faintly amused.

"Better not," Newt replies. He doesn't want to think about it, about what sight might be waiting for him in there, or more probably for Tina. If he can't hold his head up then he probably won't be able to make it down the ladder in one piece.

Tina gets out her wand, leans forward cautiously, and pushes the catch on the suitcase with her free hand. It clicks, but doesn't flick open. Tina exchanges a frowning look with Newt, and tries again. Again, the catch doesn't move.

"What—"

"Ah, there you are, my love. Awake at last!" A middle-aged witch bustles in, wearing Healer's robes and pushing a trolley. "I was so pleased when the bell at the Healer's station rang to let me know you'd woken up. I'm your Healer, Brighid McCormack. Now let's take a look at you," she says to Newt, beaming. She goes to push the chair out of the way. "Oh, your suitcase. You'll be wanting to get into it, I expect."

"Well, yes," Newt says. He wants that rather more literally than Healer McCormack knows.

"The catch was broken, kept flicking up, so I fixed it and then cast a locking spell on it. Just to keep your belongings safe. And the other patients, too, just in case. It was _rumbling_ ," she adds, rolling the 'R', and for the first time looks faintly disapproving.

"Oh, dear," Tina says. "I'll just take it over there while you examine Newt then."

"Thank you, my love." Healer McCormack beams again, and turns to Newt, tapping the side of his head with her wand. Newt starts as the bandage, which he hadn't even realised was there until this moment, unwraps itself. "Hmmn, not too bad." She takes a potion bottle from the trolley and pours a little of the contents on Newt's scalp. It stings. "Looking better," Healer McCormack declares, and then a fresh bandage is wrapping itself around his head.

Newt expects that the Healer will be on her way then, but in this he turns out to be sadly mistaken. She checks his eyes next, which is perhaps only to be expected after a head injury. But then she checks his ears, and peers down his throat. And all the while, his case is on the other side of the room, far more in need of a thorough examination than himself.

When the Healer starts unbuttoning his pyjama top, Newt tries to protest, but after undoing only a few buttons, she presses an ear-shaped device made out of some sort of metal against his bare chest. Newt winces as cold steel is pressed hard against his skin. Then the room is filled with the sound, much louder than usual, of the beating of his heart.

"Everything appears to be coming along nicely," Healer McCormack says, returning the ear-shaped device to her trolley and doing up Newt's buttons again with a flick of her wand.

Surely she will leave _now_.

She take another potion bottle from her trolley, measures out a large spoonful of a vile-looking green liquid, and holds it in front of Newt's mouth. "Down the hatch," she says, in a tone that will brook no denial.

Newt doesn't even think about wasting time trying to deny anything. He opens his mouth and gulps the potion down. It tastes quite as vile as it looks, and he makes a face.

"Oh, I know, dear," Healer McCormack agrees, nodding her head in sympathy. "But I feel that a medicine isn't really doing its job if it doesn't taste awful. We can't have people _wanting_ to drink them, now can we?"

She doesn't appear to expect an answer to this, and starts tidying the contents of the trolley, for no discernible reason.

At last, apparently satisfied, she says, "Don't get out of bed for the time being. You've suffered a nasty knock to the head and you need to rest before you try anything taxing, like walking across the room." Somehow, she manages to smile sternly as she looks at Newt. "I'll be back in an hour. Don't get out of bed in the meantime. Just ring the bell by the bedhead there, if you should need me. Or one of you two ring it," she turns her smile on Tina and then Theseus, "if he should fall into a stupor or start vomiting frogs or anything of that nature."

"Is that… likely?" Tina asks cautiously.

"No, no. Just an uncommon side effect of the potion I gave him. Hardly anyone reacts to it that way, so I wouldn't worry about it."

The look on Tina's face clearly says that _she_ will worry about it, just the same.

Newt clears his throat experimentally, and pulls in his stomach, but he doesn't feel at all nauseated.

Tina shoots him a look of alarm, and he gives her a sheepish smile of apology. Then he remembers that he can't look at her, and _why_ he can't look at her, and stares fixedly down at the bedspread.

The moment Healer McCormack leaves, Tina casts _Colloportus_ on the door, locking it, and carries the case back over to Newt's bedside.

"Okay, let's try this," Tina says. Newt takes his own wand from the bedside table and keeps his eyes firmly on the case, but he's peripherally aware of Tina raising her wand. " _Alohomora!_ "

The lid of the case flies open, and the Niffler tumbles out, swiftly followed by the Fwooper, a half a dozen Billywigs, a pair of Moon calves and the tip of the Erumpent's horn. Theseus's deep voice cries, " _Tendicula_!" a second before Tina and Newt both yell, " _Protego!_ "

All the creatures freeze where they are, unable to move as Theseus's containment charm covers them like a large net made out of light.

Tina rounds on Theseus. "What do you think you're doing?" she shouts.

"Containing my brother's creatures before they fill the room and do untold damage to this hospital," Theseus explains, as though it is entirely obvious.

"But you knew I was about to cast a shield charm. What do you think would have happened if I'd cast the shield charm before you cast the containment charm? It would have rebounded off the shield and contained something else. Probably you! Or me! Or Newt!"

"But it didn't," Theseus points out in the 'eminently reasonable' voice that Newt knows only too well. "And it wouldn't have. My reflexes are second to none. They've been honed in the field over more than a decade."

Tina draws herself up to her full, impressive height. " _My_ reflexes—"

"Do you think we might do something about my creatures?" Newt cuts in. " _Finite incantatem_ ," he says, directing his wand at the shield he's just erected. He reaches out and gently strokes the Erumpent's glowing horn, which is still sticking out of the case. "It's all right, girl. It's all right. I'm here now." None of his creatures will be much the worse for wear after going a single day without food, but they've panicked at being locked in with no sign of Newt for that length of time. They dislike their routine being disrupted almost as much as they dislike going without dinner. And breakfast.

"I'm sorry," Tina says quietly. "Of course we should be seeing to your creatures." She points her wand at the Erumpent's horn. " _Descendo_." The horn disappears back into the suitcase.

Theseus doesn't apologise, not that Newt would expect him to, but he aims his wand at the Niffler. " _Descendo._ " And the Niffler floats gently to the ground. Tina is quick to grab it.

"Give it to me," Newt says. "I'd better hang on to it until the others are sorted out." It hasn't escaped Newt's notice that most of those who have escaped this time have form when it comes to breaking out of his case, and the Niffler is most definitely at the top of that list.

Tina smiles ruefully as she places the Niffler gently in Newt's lap.

"Thank you," Newt says.

"You're welcome," Tina says, and looks quickly away before Newt has a chance to do so himself. His chest feels tight. He can't blame her for not wanting to look at him for long, but that doesn't make it any easier to see her look away.

Tina and Theseus retrieve each of the other creatures in turn, until only the Niffler remains outside the case. And Pickett.

"It's all right, Pickett. You can come out now," Newt calls. Pickett peers around the edge of the lapel of Newt's coat, and makes a questioning chirp.

"I'll take him down to the others," Tina says, going over to retrieve Pickett. "He likes mealworms, right?"

"Yes," Newt says. "There's a list of my creatures and their respective diets in my shed. In the top drawer."

Tina nods. She seems unfazed at the idea of going down into the case without him, but Newt's not so sure. She's helped him feed his creatures before, but she's never done it without his being there. He wishes he could accompany her down into the case. He needs to see all of his creatures for himself and check that they're all all right. Instead, he's stuck here.

Or is he?

Newt's definitely feeling a bit better than he was before. He's sitting up without feeling dizzy, and has been since he cast the shield charm. Maybe, if he takes it very slowly, he'll be able to stand up this time, and from there it's hardly any distance at all to the case.

He slides his legs out of bed without throwing back the covers so as not to attract undue attention and—

"Oh no, you don't." Theseus's hand clamps around Newt's knee like a vise. "You heard what the Healer said. You need to stay in bed and rest."

"I really think—" Newt begins.

"And I really think not," Theseus says, his tone as firm as his grip. "You stay where you are. Tina and I can feed your creatures. I take it there's more in there than just the ones I've seen?"

Newt briefly considers being creative with the truth, but there seems little point. For one thing, Theseus has always been able to read his face like an open book. "There are more, yes," he admits. "The case is equipped with a series of undetectable Extension Charms—which I received approval for before I left England, so don't try to tell me that I need a permit."

"Oh, I'm sure you have a permit. For the charms," Theseus says. "But what about for the creatures?"

"Are you planning to fine me and confiscate my creatures?" Newt asks, though he's sure that Theseus isn't intending to do any such thing. _Almost_ sure.

"Goodness, no." Theseus waves a hand dismissively. "That's not my area of responsibility. But I'd steer clear of anyone who works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures if I were you."

"Perhaps Newt can issue a fine to himself," Tina says dryly, coming over to the bed with Pickett riding on her shoulder.

Newt looks away, biting down on a sudden smile, just as Pickett jumps down onto the bedspread and clambers up Newt's chest to his pyjama pocket.

"Pickett, you need to go with Tina," Newt says, looking down at his small friend with a smile. He nudges Pickett with his index finger, encouraging him to move. Pickett holds on to the edge of the pocket like grim death. "No, really, Pickett."

Pickett looks up at Newt and gives him what can only be described as a hard stare.

"I'll bring some mealworms for him when I come back up," Tina says with a perfectly straight face, picking up the case and placing it carefully on the floor. She grabs the Niffler from Newt's lap without so much as a glance at Newt himself, climbs into the case, and disappears from view.

"Time to inspect the rest of your latest menagerie," Theseus says, failing to suppress a smile as he looks from Newt's face to Pickett's. Then his expression turns serious. "And when I come back, I'd like to have a little chat about anything you might have seen during the storm yesterday." He turns away and follows Tina down into the case before Newt has a chance to work out how to reply to that.

So that's why Theseus is here. Newt knew it couldn't just be out of fraternal concern, though he's sure that Theseus does genuinely care about Newt's well-being, just as Newt cares about Theseus. It can't be a coincidence that Theseus has returned right now from wherever he's been these last months. The storm must be connected to whatever Theseus has been investigating, and Newt has—or may have—information about it that's important, or at least of value.

None of that goes to explain why Tina's here, pretending that they're engaged, though. Newt's face goes hot. How could he have just grabbed her and kissed her? It's unforgivable, even if it was far from a bad kiss. Newt's sure that he'll be reliving it in his dreams for a long time to come. He just doesn't know how Tina would have responded if Theseus hadn't been standing there to see. No doubt she'll want to have her own little talk once Theseus is done with him. Or, more likely, knowing Tina, _before_ Theseus talks to him. Newt isn't sure which talk he's least looking forward to.

And now the two of them are alone in his case. The thought of that makes him feel even more ill at ease. What will they talk about? They're both Aurors, but apart from that the only thing they really have in common is Newt himself. What will Theseus say to Tina? And, more importantly, what will Tina say to Theseus? What details of their supposed engagement will she mention? And what if Theseus should later ask him about whatever Tina said? What then?

There's nothing he can do about any of it, stuck in this hospital bed. All he can do is wait. He lets out a long sigh.

Pickett chitters in worry and climbs up to drape himself against Newt's neck in what is clearly intended to be a comforting gesture. Newt smiles, and strokes Pickett very, very gently with one finger, in thanks.

And then he nearly jumps right out of his skin as he feels an arm drape itself around his shoulders. His surprise doesn't last long, though. It only takes a second's thought to realise who must own the arm.

"You are an utter menace, Dougal," he says fondly, turning to watch as his Demiguise shimmers into view beside him on the pillows.

Dougal wraps his other arm around Newt and hugs him tight. Newt closes his eyes and leans against Dougal for a moment. The sigh he lets out this time is much more relaxed. It's followed by another long breath, and then another. Before he takes the next breath, he's asleep.

 

~*~

 

Tina finds the list of creatures and their diets in the drawer of the desk in Newt's shed, just where he said it would be. The sheet of paper is lying on top of a photograph frame, laid face down in the drawer. Curious, she picks it up. It's an old frame, worn and battered around the edges, and it contains a picture of a young girl, dressed in the demure fashions of the last decade, her dark hair pulled back from her face with a broad white ribbon. She's smiling at the camera, a mysterious Mona Lisa-like smile—or is Tina reading too much into a simple facial expression?

Leta Lestrange. It must be.

Thanks to Queenie, Tina knows that Newt used to carry Leta's picture with him, but she's never seen it before. At least Newt no longer has the picture out on display. Of course, that doesn't stop him from opening the drawer and taking out the picture to look at it— _her_ —whenever he wishes. Even if he hasn't seen Leta in a long time, he hasn't quite let her go. Otherwise, there wouldn't be a picture here at all. Or maybe, just maybe, there'd be a picture of somebody else instead...

Theseus's shoes clatter on the ladder above. Tina shoves the picture back in the drawer and jams it shut.

"Right, time to get to work," she says briskly a few moments later as he steps off the bottom rung of the ladder.

"After you," Theseus says, with a little bow.

Tina's still not sure if he's making fun of her, or if the bow is just a habit so ingrained that he's not even really aware of doing it.

Feeding all of Newt's creatures takes longer than Tina expected, even with Theseus's inexpert assistance. Each and every creature seems to be not just hungry but distressed. Tina supposes that this is mostly because their usual routine has been disrupted, but it's clear that at least a few of them are all too aware that while she may be _a_ human, she's not _their_ human.

She goes from enclosure to enclosure, and nest to nest, providing what she hopes is the right food to the right beast. Newt's handwriting is a messy, hard to read scrawl and his dietary instruction sheet isn't big on detail.

Theseus helps, following Tina's directions and distributing the food readily enough, but, to Tina's surprise, he doesn't go out of his way to engage her in conversation. She was half-expecting him to corner her as soon as he climbed down into Newt's shed. Instead, he watches her. It feels like he's waiting for something, and that makes Tina increasingly edgy.

"Oh, no!" she cries, looking into Dougal's empty nest.

"What's the matter?" Theseus asks.

"Dougal—Newt's Demiguise. He's gone."

"Or possibly just invisible?" Theseus suggests. "Given that that's the attribute that Demiguises are famous for?"

Tina shakes her head. "No. Dougal always turns visible at feeding time. He's not here."

"Then no doubt he's up in the hospital room with Newt."

Tina closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh. _Tina, you idiot._ Of course Theseus is right. That's exactly where Dougal must be.

"You seem to know these creatures quite well," Theseus observes.

"What? You think I might actually be telling the truth after all?" The question is sharper than is wise when dealing with an Auror of Theseus Scamander's experience and reputation, but Tina is too wrung out from the day's events to do the wise thing right now.

"Oh, no. I don't think either of you had even thought of an engagement before today. But I am willing to admit that there's more to whatever is between you than I first thought."

"Thank you. I'm honoured," Tina says with heavy sarcasm. "What made you amend your judgment? Apart from my familiarity with Newt's creatures, naturally."

Theseus looks at her assessingly. Tina can almost see him weighing up exactly which words to share with her and which to keep to himself.

"My brother tends to be uncomfortable and awkward in the company of most human beings, but more especially in the company of women," he begins.

This isn't news to Tina. "And he's not awkward in my company?"

"Thinking of the display you put on when I returned to the room with your tea?" Theseus returns. "Yes… and no." He sits down on a stump of wood and inspects his perfectly manicured nails, so different from Newt's, which are usually broken and often dirty. "He's awkward and horribly self-conscious, to the point of not being able to look at you, until he forgets himself, and then he looks at you as if you're something truly remarkable and completely out of his reach. Then he flushes and looks away again. You can't tell me that those are the actions of a wizard confident that his affections are returned in full by the witch he intends to marry."

It takes all of Tina's considerable skills as an Auror not to betray her reaction to the words 'something truly remarkable'. Theseus thinks that Newt looks at her like that? Really? She wants to squeal like a schoolgirl being told that the boy she has a crush on 'really, really likes' her. Instead, Tina shrugs and says coolly, "Maybe not. But you know your brother better than I do and you've already pointed out that he's generally not comfortable interacting with other people. We had a whirlwind romance and then didn't see each other for over a month. Do you really think that Newt was going to be completely relaxed the first time he saw me again in those circumstances? And remember we're not even counting in that little equation that it was right after waking up in the hospital after being knocked unconscious."

Theseus keeps giving her that look of his. It's unnerving, as if he's examining every inch of her, peeling back the layers until she's exposed and vulnerable. Naked. He's looking, but not leering. No, worse than that. He's assessing her as some sort of question that needs to be answered, or as a puzzle that needs to be solved. It's as if she's hardly a person at all.

"Fair point," he concedes after a long moment. "But I'm still not convinced. Newt has never, to my knowledge, been involved in any sort of romance, whirlwind or otherwise, since he left Hogwarts. It seems entirely unlikely and out of character that he should fall headlong in love with anyone, let alone—"

"Me?" Tina asks, stung.

"I was going to say 'an Auror', actually," Theseus says mildly.

"You don't think I could care for him, do you?" As soon as Tina asks the question, the answer hits her like a hex out of nowhere. Her heart clenches. Oh, so that's it. Theseus doesn't see Newt as someone who is lovable. Lovable by anyone outside his immediate family circle, anyway. He's not looking down on her, he's looking down on Newt—even if he doesn't think that's what he's doing.

"You're wrong," she says quietly. "And eventually I'll prove to you that you're wrong, about this and about me."

"Perhaps. But until that day comes, if it ever does, a word of advice: your little charade will stand a much better chance of success if the two of you can be seen to be comfortable in each other's company. Perhaps you've never had chance to observe the behaviour of lovers?" He jumps up quickly and out of the way while Tina is still reaching in her pocket for her wand and considering which jinx to fling at him. "Reflexes, remember?" he says with an insufferable smile. "But as I was trying to say: lovers _touch_. All the time, unless they have the misfortune of being forced to keep their _affaire_ secret. The stroke of a hand, the brush of a lip, and a thousand other little points of contact every day, most of which they probably don't even notice consciously. Achieve that with my brother, and maybe I'll believe you."

Theseus turns and walks away then, leaving Tina standing there, a bowl of mealworms in her hand, looking after him as he strolls towards the shed and _aching_ to hex him into the middle of next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Telanu, even more than usual, for helping me sort this chapter out and making it fit to be seen!


	9. Newt and Tina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shenanigans continue at St Mungo's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Telanu for helping knock this chapter into shape.

He dozes, and tosses and turns, neither asleep nor awake. He dreams of her, and knows that it's a dream, but the knowledge isn't quite enough to rouse him. It starts like all the others. Tina's standing on the dock, as usual, waiting to say goodbye. Newt kisses her, as usual, but she doesn't return his kiss and her clothes don't melt away. Instead, she stiffens and pulls back. There's a look of distaste on her face, the thing he's always dreaded most, as she looks down at his hand where it cups her breast. He can't look at her. He _can't_. He wants to say he's sorry, to beg her forgiveness, but the words stick in his throat. She turns and walks away, then breaks into a run. He tries to say her name, but it comes out in a croak. _Tina, Tina, Tina…_

"Newt!"

Newt's eyes fly open and he blinks blearily, struggling to make out anything in the sudden brightness. "Tina?" he asks hoarsely.

"Sorry, old fellow. It's just me, I'm afraid."

Newt blinks a few more times, and the form of his brother, sitting by the bed, comes into focus. "Oh, hello, Theseus," he says.

"How are you feeling now?" Theseus asks.

Newt lifts his head from the pillows. He doesn't feel dizzy. "Um, better, I think," he replies. He sits up properly, remembering. "And my creatures? How are my creatures?"

"They're fine. No need to worry. Tina's just feeding the last few now."

Newt lets out a sigh of relief. He goes still, feeling something move on top of his bandaged head, and the next moment Pickett's familiar chirp comes from above.

"I believe she does have some mealworms, yes," Theseus says, addressing a spot just north of Newt's head. "Everyone is being fed and watered according to the instruction sheet." His eyes move lower, to Newt's face. "Though we couldn't find the Demi-" His eyebrows rise.

Newt doesn't need to look to know that Dougal has just become visible beside him.

"-guise," Theseus finishes. The corners of his mouth quirk up in a satisfied little smile. "I told Tina that he'd be here with you."

"He's a good friend—aren't you, Dougal?" Newt croons, turning to stroke the Demiguise's head.

Dougal leans into Newt's touch, butting his head into Newt's hand. If Demiguises could purr, Dougal would be purring now.

Theseus nods, and sits back as far as the chair will allow—which isn't very far at all. "So," he says, "you're engaged."

Newt knew that Theseus wouldn't take long to broach the subject, but it still manages to take him by surprise. "Uh, so it appears," he says weakly, and lets his head fall back against the pillows. What has Tina said to his brother? Surely she'll follow him up out of the suitcase and put an end to this conversation at any second. Newt can only hope so, and in the meantime he'll do his best to stall for time.

"Appears? That's an interesting choice of words." Theseus quirks one eyebrow in a practised look.

"I wasn't expecting… Well, I wasn't expecting Tina," Newt tries to explain.

"That makes two of us," Theseus says dryly.

Newt can't help but grin. "I don't think there can be another witch like her anywhere."

"That I can well believe," Theseus says, in a way that makes Newt think that his brother's conversation with Tina while they were in the case feeding his creatures must not have been entirely equable.

"Did she shout at you?" Newt asks, interested. "She shouted at me the first time we met."

"And yet you fell in love with her. Apparently."

"And you didn't. Apparently," Newt says, willing his face not to go red. He can feel the hot flush spreading along his neck.

"No," Theseus says, his lips thinning in annoyance. "She's definitely not my type. I wouldn't have thought she was yours, either."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd know what my type was," Newt says, so mildly that they could be discussing the weather.

"Maybe not, but I wouldn't have thought that an argumentative American Auror-"

"A brave, loyal, forthright witch who stands up for those who need help even when the prudent course of action would be to stay right out of it," Newt cuts in. His tone isn't in any way mild now and his hands are clenched in the folds of the bedspread.

Theseus holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Steady on, old fellow. No offence intended."

Newt lets out a deep breath. "None taken," he says, making a concerted effort to release his grip on the covers. "Tina and I faced down Grindelwald together. Did you know that? I doubt very much that Madam Picquery would have mentioned either of us when she reported on the incident to the International Confederation of Wizards."

"No, she didn't. But I knew you were present when they captured Grindelwald."

"You knew? How did you-?"

"Ways and means, little brother. Ways and means." Theseus taps the side of his nose in a confidential manner. "I admit that I didn't know Miss Goldstein was there, though. That's most interesting."

"She and I have been through a lot together in a short space of time."

"So I am beginning to realise. She's not quite what I expected." Theseus frowns slightly. "Mother will probably love her, but then Mother would love any witch that either of us brought home."

Newt blenches. "I don't think there's any need to tell Mother just yet. This is supposed to be a secret engagement." And then another thought seizes him. "You didn't tell her I was here, did you? Or that I'd been hurt?"

"Of course not," Theseus says, and a conspiratorial look that Newt knows only too well replaces his habitual urbane mask. For a second, they're two boys together again, in league against the world and most especially against their parents. "There's no point in worrying her for no good reason, so I was waiting to see how scrambled your brains were when you woke up before I said anything to her."

"They're no more scrambled than usual, thank you very much, so there's absolutely no call to bring Mother into things."

"She definitely doesn't need to see you like this," Theseus agrees, "but she'll have to be told about your engagement sooner or later—and preferably sooner. If I know about it and the Minister knows about it, then you can guarantee that other people at the Ministry know about it too. The news will get out. Do you want Mother to be the last person to find out?"

"Of course not." Newt shudders slightly, just imagining his mother's reaction to _that_. "But surely we can wait at least until I get out of here before anything need be said to Mother." With luck, Tina will be back in America before Mother need be told anything at all. Except that he doesn't want Tina to go back to America so soon. Just the thought makes him feel strangely unsettled. Almost ill.

He's not going to start puking frogs after all, is he? Newt forces himself to breathe slowly and evenly, in and out, and tries to think stomach-calming thoughts.

"On your own head be it," Theseus says with a grin, but then his expression turns serious and he's all business. "Before Tina comes back up from feeding the rest of your creatures, I need to talk to you about what happened yesterday."

"All right," Newt says, taking a sip from the glass of water on his bedside table. "But I'm warning you now that I don't remember everything."

"We'll start with what I already know, then, and you can tell me anything else you remember."

Newt nods.

"Very well, then." Theseus nonchalantly plucks a familiar-looking file from thin air.

There's no way on earth that that was as spontaneous as it looked. _He must have been practising that little bit of non-verbal wandless magic for ages, the show-off!_

Theseus looks down at the contents of the file and clears his throat. "Yesterday, when you were in the Welsh village of Gwyllt Gwyntog, paying a call on a Mrs Verity Fitchett-"

"Mrs Fitchett! Of course!" Newt exclaims. "I couldn't remember her name," he adds, when he notices Theseus's bemused expression.

"Yes," Theseus says patiently. "When you visited Mrs Fitchett yesterday… It was just a straightforward false dragon sighting, wasn't it? I had a look over the history of her dealings with the Ministry." He nods at the file in his hand.

"I wish I had," Newt says with feeling, as memory of Mrs Fitchett's inexhaustible flow of words starts flooding back.

"As I _said_ ," Theseus says pointedly, "I read her file, and she's obviously a serial nuisance. I can't imagine that there was really a Peruvian Vipertooth on the coast of Wales."

"No, not a real one. Just something that looked exactly like one," Newt says, as casually as he can. If Theseus can pretend nonchalance, then so can Newt.

His words have the desired effect. Theseus goes still, for all the world like a serpent about to strike. "Tell me everything you can remember. No detail is too small."

Newt does. He tells Theseus everything, about the potion he used to determine the shape of the creature who'd left the footprint in the mud, and that it had revealed that the creature's true form was a wizard or witch. He tells him about the storm, and its more than natural speed as it raced up the coast from the south. He tells him about Mrs Fitchett. He even tells him about the Bowtruckles on the tree in Mrs Fitchett's garden. The only thing he doesn't mention is the sea serpent's warning: the story of his meeting with the sea serpent will have to wait, at least for the moment.

"I take it this is useful," he says, as he comes to the end of his narrative.

"Perhaps," Theseus says. His face is giving absolutely nothing away.

Newt is tired and his head hurts—and he's lost an entire day, become engaged without his knowledge and accidentally kissed Tina. After all that, he doesn't have the patience to deal with Theseus playing at being the inscrutable Auror. "Oh, come on, Theseus," he snaps. "That storm was magical. We both know that. And you obviously know who's behind it, or at least you have a pretty good suspicion."

"Perhaps," Theseus says again, his expression still maddeningly impassive. "But even if that's true, you know I can't tell you."

"Did I tell you about the magical storm I experienced in the middle of the Atlantic on my way back from New York?"

"You know you didn't."

"And I haven't spoken to anyone at the Ministry about what I saw that night in the New York subway."

"I know you haven't." Theseus frowns. "So what are you saying? Are you trying to use the information you possess as a bargaining chip to get answers out of me in turn?"

"No, I just…" Newt shakes his head impatiently. "You know you can trust me? You _do_ know that, don't you?"

"Of course, Newt. Of course I trust you. But I don't trust your fiancee." Newt opens his mouth to protest and Theseus holds up one hand. "I don't _know_ her."

"I do, and I trust her." To his surprise, Newt realises that that's still true, despite the lies she's told to get her here. He trusts that Tina will have a good reason for whatever she's done.

"Are you sure of that? It was terribly convenient for her, your secret engagement. It enabled MACUSA to force the Ministry's hand and get her over here to see you—and to check up on what we might be doing and what we might _not_ be telling them."

"So, you're saying that Tina is using me?" It's surprising how much that implication hurts, even though it's technically true.

"Well, isn't she?"

"No," Newt says. "We're engaged. Just as Tina told you." The lie comes easily to his lips.

Theseus gives him a long, steady look. Newt looks straight back.

Eventually, Theseus sighs. "Very well," he says. "I was hoping that it wouldn't turn out like this, but your dragon-sighting-that-wasn't-a-dragon leaves very little doubt. I'll report back to the Minister about that, and then no doubt he'll inform Madam Picquery."

"Inform Madam Picquery of what, exactly?"

Theseus gets up and walks over to the window. He stares down at London, for so long that Newt starts to think that he isn't going to answer.

"We think the storm was created by… someone known to the Ministry," Theseus says, turning to look back at Newt. "Someone from _inside_ the Ministry. As a distraction from something else."

"Are you going to tell me who this someone is, at least?" Newt has a bad feeling about this. It's not just the thought of a betrayal from inside. It's more personal than that. He knows many people who work for the Ministry, some through his own work but more through Theseus and his father, through myriad old family connections going back generations.

Theseus comes back from the window, stopping at the foot of Newt's bed. "There was only one person at the Ministry with the skill at transfiguration to transform someone—whether himself or someone else—into a dragon. That person has been missing for over a week."

"And that person is?"

"Antenor Lestrange. The uncle of the girl you knew at Hogwarts."

Newt goes still. "I know who Antenor is." Leta's beloved 'Uncle Ant'. The least Lestrange-like Lestrange ever to draw breath.

"The 'good' Lestrange. The 'normal' Lestrange. The only Lestrange ever to _lower_ himself to the level of working for the Ministry." Theseus laughs mirthlessly. "There's always an angle with any member of that family. I don't think one of them has ever played such a long game as Antenor appears to have done, though."

"You think he's betrayed the Ministry, then?" Newt asks quietly. He finds it almost impossible to believe. Antenor is a younger son, of course. The Lestranges would never have allowed a firstborn son to go his own way as Antenor had done. But even so, Antenor had had to fight his family when he took his first job at the Ministry, or so Leta had said. He's never been interested in money or power. Instead, he's well-known as a lover of books and ideas and magical theory. He was even friendly, in a reserved sort of way, on the few occasions Newt has had dealings with him.

And he's a powerful wizard. If he has turned…

"I think he must have. All the pieces fit."

They exchange a sombre look.

"So, why the distraction?" Newt asks. "What was the storm distracting attention _from_?"

"Do I really need to tell you?" Theseus asks in his typically maddening way.

"Well, I'm asking," Newt replies, as reasonably as he can.

Theseus doesn't answer at once. He comes back around the bed and sits down, and then takes his time getting settled in the chair. He sits back, eyebrows raised in a mysterious, knowing look.

Newt purses his lips and runs his fingers through Dougal's fur, trying for patience.

Theseus slowly curls his fingers around the arms of the chair. "Grindelwald," he says.

"I thought it must be," Newt says. "But I wish you wouldn't be quite so dramatic about the reveal, Theseus!"

"You're the one who couldn't guess," Theseus retorts, looking suddenly much more like his usual self.

"It wasn't that I _couldn't_..." Newt clamps his lips together and takes a deep breath. He lets it out slowly, then says in an altogether more measured tone, "So Grindelwald is in this country?"

" _Was_ in this country. We're almost sure that while the storm was ravaging the west coast and drawing our attention there, Grindelwald was crossing the Channel to the Continent."

Newt whistles. "No wonder the you didn't want to admit to it. A traitor from high in the ranks of the Ministry enables Grindelwald to slip through your fingers."

" _Our_ fingers," Theseus corrects. "Or have you forgotten that you work for the Ministry too?"

"To quote an Auror I know, that's not my area of responsibility." Newt tuts mock-sadly, and shakes his head—slowly, so that Pickett doesn't fly off. "It doesn't look good, particularly not after the grief the Minister gave Madam Picquery when Grindelwald escaped from MACUSA's custody last month."

"Indeed, it doesn't look good. Fortunately, the look of the thing is no more my area of responsibility than yours."

No, Theseus isn't responsible for the presentation of the situation for public consumption. That much is true. However, he _is_ responsible for working out who, what and when, plus why and how. _How_ , that's the question here. "How do you know?" Newt asks abruptly. "How can you be sure, or nearly sure, that Grindelwald crossed the Channel?"

"You're just full of questions today, aren't you?"

"You've told me the rest. Why not this as well?"

"Why not indeed?" Theseus shrugs. "It's not something that we can keep from the other countries on the look-out for Grindelwald, so Tina will find out one way or the other before very much longer."

"And?" Newt prompts when his brother goes silent. Honestly, sometimes trying to get useful information out of Theseus is like trying to get edible honey out of a Glumbumble hive. "Did someone notice something?"

"You could say that. A Muggle fisherman was surprised to see a large sailing vessel rise up out of nowhere just off the coast of Kent yesterday. He was even more surprised when said sailing vessel vanished beneath the waves again in a matter of seconds."

"I'm sure he was," Newt says, thinking furiously. The pieces are falling into place. "You Obliviated him?"

"Naturally."

"And you're sure that he wasn't just making this up, or drunk or something?"

"Of course. The vessel left a magical disturbance behind it under the water. It was easy to track all the way to the French coast near Calais. Then the trail went cold."

"A disturbance? Like a darkness spreading through the water?" Newt asks the question but he's already sure of the answer. A ship that travels underwater. That's how Grindelwald made the journey from America. It has to be.

Theseus leans forward, his eyes intent on Newt's face. "That's just how my subordinates described it. What else do you know, Newt?"

Newt gives a resigned little smile. "I think it's time I told you about the magical storm I encountered in the mid-Atlantic—and the sea serpent I met there."

He leans back against the pillows and begins his tale.

 

~*~

 

Tina isn't in a great mood by the time she ascends the ladder, with the bowl of mealworms and another of apples bobbing along obediently behind her. The feeding and soothing of Newt's creatures took even longer once Theseus was no longer there to provide even desultory help.

Her mood deteriorates further when she steps out of the case and sees that Theseus is still here, deep in conversation with Newt. The conversation comes to a halt when Theseus looks around and sees her standing there.

"Ah, Tina," he says, getting quickly to his feet. "I was just leaving. There are things back at the Ministry that need attending to."

"I'm sure," Tina says flatly as she plucks the two bowls from the air.

"I'll be back later to escort you to your accommodation."

"There's no need. I'm sure I can find my way," Tina says, wondering just where the hell she's going to stay. No one mentioned that before she left New York. Tina herself hadn't given it a thought. She hadn't thought of anything beyond seeing Newt and making sure that he was all right.

"Of course you'll stay in my flat," Newt says quietly, not quite looking at her. He's pale, making his freckles stand out even more than usual, and there are shadows under his eyes. He looks tired.

Tina's lips tighten. Theseus has probably been interrogating Newt this whole time.

"I stayed with you when I was in New York," Newt continues, when Tina doesn't answer immediately. "Of course you'll stay with me while you're in London. It isn't as if I'll be there, in any case. There's no impropriety."

Tina rolls her eyes. "Newt, I'm an Auror, not a debutante. It's not as if I'm innocent and vulnerable. I can take care of myself."

Newt's gaze is warm as he looks at her properly for a moment. "I wouldn't say that you were-"

"Don't finish that sentence," Tina advises, but she's biting down on a smile as she gazes back.

Theseus clears his throat. "As I _said_ , I'll be on my way." Without waiting for either of them to reply, he Disapparates with a crack.

All is silent in the room. Realising suddenly that she's still staring at Newt, Tina hastily looks away, an instant after Newt does so himself. This is the first time they've been alone together since Newt woke up and kissed her. She's not sure what to say. Fortunately, Pickett takes care of that for her, chirping loudly from his perch atop Newt's head.

"Hungry now?" Tina asks the Bowtruckle as she comes over to the bed. She places the bowl of mealworms carefully on top of the covers beside Newt's arm and sits down in the chair recently vacated by Theseus.

In answer, Pickett dives head first into the bowl, briefly disappearing from view before surfacing, like a bright green boat bobbing in a sea of squirming yellow-orange, half a mealworm sticking out of his mouth. Tina wrinkles her nose at the sight, but there's no doubt that Pickett is in bliss.

"You _were_ hungr- Hey!" An apple rises from the bowl she's holding, as if of its own volition, before it is swiftly devoured by an invisible something. "Dougal!" The Demiguise shimmers into view, looking mildly shamefaced, but not enough to stop him from stealing another apple before he scampers back to the bed to eat it by Newt's side. "Theseus was right. He said Dougal would be here with you," she adds, daring to look at Newt again as she reaches across to give Dougal the entire bowl of apples. Dougal snatches the bowl from her hands, continuing to munch happily.

Newt's face is grave as he stares at a point somewhere past her left elbow. "I really must apologise, Tina. My actions were unforgivable—though I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me eventually."

"Newt, what-"

"I have no real excuse," Newt ploughs on, clearly determined to get it all out in one go. "I thought you were a dream, and so I just reached up and… and, well, the rest you know."

Tina stares at him. "Have… have you been dreaming about me, Newt?"

"I suppose there's not much point in denying it, is there?" he asks, still not looking at her.

Tina smiles. She doesn't mean to, but her mouth seems to have its own ideas. It sounds like Newt's dreams have been at least a little like her own. "You don't have to apologise. There's no need, not for something that wasn't… unwelcome."

Newt does look at her then. "It… wasn't unwelcome?" he asks carefully.

"Remember what I just said about being an Auror, not a debutante? If it was unwelcome, you wouldn't be left wondering. You'd _know_ without a shadow of a doubt."

"I thought… I thought maybe you were just pretending, you know, for Theseus' benefit, given that we're apparently engaged now."

Tina winces. "Yeah, sorry about that. It was the only way I could get over here to see you after I heard you'd been injured. The Ministry refused all assistance from MACUSA, so I had to come as Tina Goldstein, Newt Scamander's fiancee, not Tina Goldstein, Auror. I had to make it in MACUSA's interest to send me, though. They want me to... well, they want me to spy a little and find out what the Ministry's hiding from them."

"You don't have to apologise. You presence is… not unwelcome." A tiny smile touches the corners of Newt's mouth as he echoes her words of a moment ago. "So, it wasn't just pretence for Theseus' benefit?" he adds hesitantly.

"No, it wasn't," Tina says firmly.

"Well then," Newt says, and smiles down at the quilt.

He reaches out to take her hand, and squeezes it. Tina squeezes his hand in return. There are so many things that she needs to tell him about what's been happening since she last saw him, and so much, she suspects, that he needs to tell her about what he's been doing—particularly in relation to the storm. But right now magical storms and dark wizards and the Ministry's unwillingness to admit to whatever's going on are all nothing compared to the feel of Newt's hand clasped in hers. The awareness of it fills her senses.

"Theseus and I had quite the talk when we were down in the case feeding your creatures," Tina says after a moment. "He's sure that our engagement is a fake and he doesn't trust me."

Newt glances up in surprise. It's clearly not what he was expecting her to mention next.

"He said something similar to me," he says. "About you, I mean."

"Your brother is sort of right. He's just wrong about my reason for being here," Tina says, looking down at their joined hands. "And he made a good point, among all the other things he said to me. He pointed out that if we're going to make anyone believe that we're engaged, we need to be comfortable with each other. Being together, and… touching each other." Gathering all her courage, she reaches out with her free hand and puts action to her words, touching two fingers to his jaw. He hasn't shaved in more than a day. She can feel his bristles beneath her fingers, and remembers how they scraped against her skin when he kissed her.

Newt looks down at her fingers. He has thick lashes, Tina notices. They suit him.

"Is there a reason why we need to continue to pretend to be engaged?" Newt asks. "Since you're here now."

Tina drops her hand from his face, as quickly as if she'd touched a hot coal, and lets go of his hand. It's her turn to look away.

"We do, if I'm going to get at least a little information to keep MACUSA happy. And, you know, I'd personally like to find out what the Ministry's up to with that storm. I'm not going to get very far if I'm just Tina Goldstein, Auror." Her voice cracks on the last word, and she swallows hard.

"That's true. Tina…" Newt pauses. He appears to be waiting for some response from her, but Tina doesn't say anything. "Tina," Newt says again, "Theseus told me quite a lot about the storm, and related matters. They're matters that you'll want to know about. I'm sure it won't come as much of a surprise to find out that Grindelwald appears to have been involved. And I'm equally sure that you'll want to investigate what happened and try to find out where he is now."

"Of course I do," Tina says, looking up, but she can't find the enthusiasm within herself that she knows she should be feeling. She shouldn't have touched him. She knows how jumpy Newt can be, how twitchy, when he's put on the spot.

"Tina." Newt pauses, yet again. It's as if just saying her name makes him tongue-tied. "I…"

Then, to Tina's astonishment, he reaches out and cups her jaw. His hand is warm against her skin, and it's all Tina can do to stop herself from leaning into what feels very like a caress.

"Would you mind very much if I kissed you?" Newt asks. "We'll need to practise if we're going to appear as comfortable touching each other as a newly engaged couple should."

Tina lets out a sort of strangled laugh. Newt always surprises her. Always. She gets to her feet, but only so she can sit down on the side of the bed. Newt watches her, still looking a little unsure. She leans down—and Pickett chirps in alarm as the bowl of mealworms wobbles precariously on the edge of the bed. Tina leaps up and catches it a moment before it goes over the side of the bed and places it safely on the chair.

She turns around to find Newt watching her. He holds her gaze for a long moment before she sits down on the edge of the bed again, kicks off her shoes and pulls her legs up, and wriggles into place beside him. He shifts, accommodating her, and, on his other side Dougal vanishes. Tina watches the indentations in the quilt as Dougal moves across the bed, the bowl of apples floating eerily above. There's a light thud as he hits the floor and a moment later the suitcase moves, just a little, as though someone has grabbed hold of the side of it, and the bowl of apples disappears inside.

Tina's about to get up again to close the suitcase behind Dougal when Newt lays a hand on her arm.

"Stay," he says.

She looks at him across the pillow. He's close, so close, and watching her every move. Tina smiles a little nervously, and Newt lifts his hand to cup her face again. He leans in, very slowly.

Too slowly. Tina can't stand the suspense. She leans forward to bridge the gap, and at last their lips meet.

It's not as good as their previous kiss, at least technically. Newt's lips are actually trembling at first, and their noses bump as they search for the right angle. But they're both here this time, in mind as well as body, and they both know exactly what they're doing and who they're doing it with. Tina opens her mouth a little more, and Newt follows suit, and...

Then his lips are moving on hers and she's breathing hard, breathing him in until she's breathless, and his fingers slip up into her hair, stroking erratically, as her own hand slides along his neck, feeling smooth skin replaced by stubble, and she's making small, desperate sounds in the back of her throat. He moans softly into her mouth, and she presses up against him, because she can't not touch him. She wants more. She wants-

"Now, now, my dears. I'm afraid we can't have these sorts of goings on in the hospital."

Tina pulls back, gasping, and knows she's flushing wildly. In another second she's up off the bed and on her feet, trying desperately to smooth down her hair, even though she knows it's a losing battle.

Healer McCormack is standing in the middle of the room, smiling at them benevolently.

Tina wants to sink into the floor.

"I told you I'd be back in an hour," the Healer says. "I'll need to check on my patient now, if you don't mind, Miss."

"Of course," Tina says, looking anywhere but at Newt. "I think I’ll go get a glass of water, if you could point me in the right direction?"

"Visitor's lounge is on the next floor up. Go up the stairs at the end of the hallway and it's the first door on your right."

"Thanks." Tina beats a hasty retreat towards the door, stopping only to grab her shoes. She hops the last few steps as she slips her shoes back on.

"Oh, and Miss-?" the Healer calls after her.

"Goldstein. It's Miss Goldstein, Mr Scamander's fiancee," Tina says. She needs to get used to saying that.

"Miss Goldstein, I know what it's like to be young and in love, though you wouldn't think it to look at me now. Just… don't lock the door in future? I had to use an unlocking spell on it, and that only serves to attract attention." The Healer is still looking kindly on her, which only serves to make Tina feel even more uncomfortable.

An unlocking spell? Really? Tina hadn't noticed, but then she hadn't been aware of anything beyond the two of them right then. She can feel herself going redder. "Of course," she said.

"Don't blame Miss Goldstein." That's Newt's voice, behind her. "It was all my fault."

"I'm sure it was," the Healer says, but she sounds amused. "And now it's time for your examination." She advances on the bed.

Tina leaves them to it and makes it out of the door without further delay. Maybe once she's drunk a glass of cold water or two, and brushed her hair, and splashed some water on her face, she'll be able to come back and face Newt without blushing Chinese Fireball red.

Tina holds a hand against her hot cheek and remembers how Newt's hand had felt right there.

_Or maybe not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that it's been a while between updates. I've had a few weeks of migraines, which unsurprisingly slowed the writing down a lot. With luck, the next chapter should be up a lot quicker.


	10. Tina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puttin' on the Ritz!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got long. Oops!
> 
> Huge thanks to Telanu for beta help!

Tina makes her way back down the stairs and along the corridor to Newt's room. She's brushed her hair and cleaned her face and hands, and she's feeling a little fresher. She'd hoped for a glass of water, something to help cool her down, but the makings for tea, an urn of hot water and a collection of ancient mugs were the only options available in the visitors' lounge—a much grander title than the tiny room deserved—so she's ended up with a mug of tea. Tina's got a feeling that tea is going to be a recurring theme during her visit to London. She's only been here, what? An hour? It can't be much more than that. And she's already on her second cup. Well, she didn't actually drink any of the first cup, true. But it still counts.

She stops just short of the door of Newt's ward. It's open, but she can't hear the sound of any voices coming from inside. Telling herself not to blush, she straightens her shoulders, holds her head high and strides into the room, ready for any and every possible reception from Newt.

It's an anti-climax.

"Oh, hello, Miss Goldstein," Healer McCormack says, looking up from her cart.

On the bed behind her, Newt is quiet and still.

"I've given him something to help him sleep, poor lamb," the Healer continues, following the direction of Tina's gaze. "It's the best thing for him right now."

Tina nods, and her hands clench at her sides. _Who gave you the right to do that without asking me?_ she wants to shout. She and Newt still haven't had a chance to talk properly about everything that's happened. It looks like they're going to have to wait a little longer.

It takes her a moment until she trusts herself to speak.

"This one doesn't have any side-effects, does it?" she asks, remembering the Healer's warning about the last potion she gave Newt.

"It does make some people hallucinate," Healer McCormack admits, "but he's quite deeply under, so I doubt that will be a problem in this case. He might experience some vivid dreams before too long, though. Keep an eye out in case he thrashes about in his sleep."

Tina nods again. "Okay, I will. How long do you think he'll be asleep?"

"Oh a few hours, if the potion works as it's supposed to. No reason to think it won't," the Healer says cheerfully as Tina's nails sink into her palms.

Fortunately, the Healer doesn't wait around long. "I'll be back between afternoon tea and dinner time. You know where the bell is if you need me," she tells Tina as she pushes the cart out of the door.

Tina waits to make absolutely certain that Healer McCormack is gone before closing the door firmly behind her. It's tempting to cast a locking charm—but perhaps not. It's not as if there's anything for anyone to walk in on this time. Not even a private conversation, if the Healer's right about how strong the sleeping potion is.

She returns to Newt's bedside, taking in his sleeping features, the freckled, narrow face, the thick lashes fanned out against his cheek, and, of course, the thin, clever mouth framed by ginger stubble. It isn't the first time today that she's sat here, looking at him as he sleeps, but this time it's different.

This time she knows he's going to wake up—Tina swallows hard—and this time she knows what it feels like to kiss that mouth and have her kiss returned with interest. She knows what it feels like to lean in so close that that stubble brushes her cheek and sends a tiny shiver right through her. She knows what it feels like when that hand cups her breast and makes her sigh.

And she knows what it is to see those eyes open, to see them see her, to see that mouth curve into a smile.

Tina can feel her lips curving up into an answering smile at the memory. She doesn't intend to do it; she just… smiles. It's a strange feeling, being so drawn to someone. This would just be an ordinary hospital room, old and slightly dingy though scrupulously clean, if anyone but Newt were lying in that bed. Somehow, the room is different, everything is different— _she's_ different—just because he's near. It's as if this room, this tiny corner of the world, is lit up with its own spotlight, but only she can see it.

When she set out from New York, all she knew was that she had to go because there was unfinished business between her and Newt, and that she couldn't stop thinking about him. Now she's here and in his company again, now that the kiss they should have shared that day on the dock in New York has finally happened, everything's clearer.

Tina's never felt like this about anybody. Nobody has ever _made_ her feel like this. She has to follow this feeling and find out where it leads. Right now, that means sitting here, watching Newt, and waiting for him to wake up.

She sips her tea—and nearly spits it right out again. The tea tastes weak and watery, with none of the robust flavour she expects from coffee. Maybe she didn't steep it long enough? Or perhaps she didn't spoon enough tea into the pot in the first place? Or maybe tea prepared in any way just isn't strong enough to hold her interest? Who knows? She tries to ignore the little voice in her head, which sounds remarkably like Queenie, pointing out that she's not much good at making coffee, either, however much she might love drinking it.

Queenie.

Tina wonders how her sister's doing, and has to remind herself that it's less than two hours since she last saw her. It feels like a week at least since she left New York. Queenie's probably sitting at home, doing whatever it is she does on Saturday mornings. Tina usually spends her Saturday mornings at MACUSA, logging a few extra hours at the office when it's quiet and she can think, so… she doesn't really have a clue what Queenie does then, she realises.

Somehow, being this far away makes her worry more about whatever Queenie's getting up to, even though she herself is no more or less absent than she's been on any other Saturday since she returned to being an Auror.

Newt shifts in the bed and flings an arm across his face. He make a muffled groan against the back of his hand and rolls onto his side.

Tina hastily gets up, setting her tea down on the nightstand.

"It's okay, Newt. There's nothing to worry about," she says, in what she hopes is a soothing voice. It looks like the vivid dreams are kicking in right on schedule.

New mutters something unintelligible, but his arm flops down against his chest. Tina leans down to stroke his brow and Newt calms immediately. He heaves a sigh that turns into slow, even breathing, and leans into her touch.

"Tina." He utters her name so quietly that it's hardly more than a breath.

He's dreaming of her, and it appears to be a good dream. Or at least, it's a good dream _now_.

Tina knows she's smiling again, and it's a much goofier smile than before, but she's just as powerless to stop it.

"Oh, Newt," she says softly.

Newt's eyelids flutter, but he doesn't wake. After a moment, Tina straightens up and takes her hand from his brow.

Newt moves restlessly in the bed and rolls over onto his back. It's impossible not to notice the tenting of the bedclothes below his waist.

It really _is_ a good dream.

Tina flushes and looks away quickly. She isn't a complete stranger to such occurrences, but it's been a while since she was the cause of one, even indirectly. And besides, it feels like a huge intrusion on Newt's privacy. He would be utterly mortified if he knew that she'd witnessed such a thing.

She doesn't want to do anything to make him feel embarrassed or unhappy.

Tina looks around the room, searching for a distraction—any distraction at all—and finds nothing. Not even Newt's suitcase, which was lying open in the middle of the floor when she left to get tea.

She walks over to the closet and checks, and of course there the case is, safely closed and not moving or rumbling even the tiniest bit.

Tina goes back to the chair by the bed and her gaze falls on the mug of tea. It's not like there's much else to do, so she picks it up and takes a sip—and regrets it immediately. She looks around for a wastebasket or something, and winds up spitting the mouthful of tea into a small enamel bowl, before washing it clean with a tap of her wand.

She looks down at the mug and shakes her head in disapproval. "You won't do at all," she tells it, and with another flick of her wand transforms the mug of tea into a cup of steaming hot coffee.

Even though Tina knows that it's not really coffee, the first sip is one of the best things she's tasted in her whole life.

Maybe when Newt wakes up he can show her how to make a drinkable cup of tea—if such a thing exists.

 

~*~

 

Theseus returns maybe half an hour later. It's hard to tell exactly how much time has passed. Newt has fallen into what appears to be a deep and dreamless sleep, and, after a mostly sleepless night and an eventful day, Tina's half-asleep herself. The cup of coffee she conjured has turned out to be no more help in keeping her awake than if it had remained a cup of tea.

"Oh, hi." Tina lifts her head from where it's resting uncomfortably against the edge of the nightstand and blinks blearily up at Theseus. She feels like she's developing a crick in her neck. "How did the meeting with the Minister go?" she asks, stifling a yawn.

Theseus stiffens. "I didn't tell you that I was going to see the Minister."

"Why else would you be going to the office all of a sudden on a Saturday afternoon, right after having a long conversation with Newt?" Tina asks as reasonably as she can. She arches an eyebrow and points a finger at herself. "I'm an Auror, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Theseus replies with a withering look that turns into a worried frown as he takes in the sight of his sleeping brother. "How is he now?"

"The Healer gave him a sleeping potion. She said he should be out for another couple of hours."

"Ah," Theseus says. "So perhaps now would be an opportune time for me to escort you to Newt's London flat? I'm sure you'll want to… 'freshen up' is the American expression, I believe?"

"That's one way of putting it." Tina gets up. "Will I be able to come back here whenever I want?"

"During daylight hours, yes. There are no blocks to Apparating directly to this room. The hospital has waived the usual visiting hours at the Ministry's request,"—he emphasises the word in a way that makes it clear that it was more of a demand— "but they draw the line at letting 'strangers', as they put it, into the wards after dark."

"I'm hardly a stranger."

"I believe they class anyone falling outside the categories of patient or staff as a stranger. It's not only you."

Tina grins. "What? They won't let you in after dark either? I'm shocked!"

The corners of Theseus' lips turn up so fleetingly that Tina's not even sure if she really saw him smile. He crooks his arm in readiness, and Tina hastens to retrieve her suitcase from the corner of the room, where it's been sitting almost forgotten since she arrived.

"Let me take your luggage," Theseus says, holding out his hand.

"No, I'm fine." Tina casts one last, lingering look at Newt. He's sleeping quietly, giving no sign that he's likely to wake up anytime soon. She firms her lips, grips the handle of her case with one hand and takes hold of Theseus's arm with the other. "Ready whenever you are."

"Well, then. Let us depart."

 

~*~

 

Newt's apartment—flat—whatever—is both fascinating and almost ordinary. It's only slightly larger than the apartment Tina shares with Queenie, and the furnishings look much like those of any other apartment, but everything else about it is that little bit more ornate than she's used to. The hallway opens out into a relatively spacious living area, with wooden panelling on the walls and a bay window looking out over the street. There's a closed door on the far side of the room.

"So, we're in Ryder Street," Tina says, remembering the address from Newt's letters as she looks down at the busy street. They seem to be quite a ways up. "It looks like the middle of the city."

"We're in the heart of London," Theseus confirms as he joins her at the window. "The Ministry is perhaps half a mile that way, off towards the river, while the Muggle royal palace is on the other side of Green Park, over there." He points to each in turn. "And of course a mile or so that way, on Charing Cross Road behind the Leaky Cauldron, is Diagon Alley,"—he points his finger at the opposite wall—"but I'd suggest you don't try to get in by yourself."

"The diagonal what is where now?" Tina asks. He can't be talking about an actual leaky cauldron, can he? How would a diagonal cauldron even work?

"Surely you've heard of Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron?" Theseus raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"No, actually."

"Diagon Alley is the primary wizarding street and shopping district in London. Entry is via the Leaky Cauldron, a magical inn on the Muggle Charing Cross Road."

Well, at least that makes a little more sense.

"I'd take you there, but I need to be getting back to the Ministry," Theseus continues, pulling out an elegant gold pocket watch and flicking it open. "I'm sure you'll go straight back to St Mungo's once you've finished here, won't you?" He shuts the watch with a firm click and deposits it back in his vest pocket. "Since you're so very concerned about my brother." He looks straight at her with familiar blue-green eyes that lack all the warmth of Newt's.

So they're back to this again, just as Tina was beginning to think that she and Theseus might be finding some common ground, and maybe, just maybe, learning to get along. She reminds herself not to make that mistake again.

"I'll make my own decisions," she tells Theseus. "Just like you make yours. And speaking of which, you'd probably better get back to the Ministry and your important business there." It's either that, or she gives in to the temptation and simply hexes him as she's wanted to do since almost the moment she met him.

"I'll see you back at the hospital later." It's mostly just a promise, with the tiniest hint of a threat underlying the words. Theseus bows stiffly, and in another instant he's gone.

Tina lets out a deep breath and sags against the window frame. It's a relief to be alone and away from that hospital. She takes off her coat and goes to hang it on the hall stand.

There are three doors off the hallway, all closed. Curious, she opens the first, and finds a bathroom. The fittings are a little old-fashioned, and there's no shower, but the free-standing bathtub looks roomy and the walls are covered in blue-green hand-painted tiles, depicting some sort of fantastic-looking bird. It all looks… very Newt.

Tina grins, and shuts the door.

The next room is… well, Tina's not quite sure whether it's supposed to be a bedroom. There _could_ be a bed under all of the papers and notebooks and piles of _stuff_ that litter the room. Maybe. If it is a bedroom, it's probably a spare. Nobody could sleep in here in its current condition. It's obviously being used as a workspace, or a storage space for work things, so she takes care not to touch anything and closes the door behind her.

That means that behind the last door must be… She opens it, and yes, she's right. It's Newt's bedroom.

In comparison to the workroom, the bedroom is almost spartan. There's a narrow bed covered in a deep blue quilt, a nightstand, a small dressing table with a mirror hanging from the wall above, a chest of drawers, and a large matching closet in the corner. It's as neat as a pin. There are no clothes lying on the end of the bed or on the floor. There's not even a hairbrush on the dressing table. There's really hardly anything at all in this room to show that it belongs to Newt. Except…

Tina moves closer to the bed. There's a cushion on the nightstand, covered in green and brown leaves, that clearly belongs to Pickett. Next to it is a small porcelain clock in the shape of a hippogriff with its wings spread in flight. The clock looks a little garish, all white and gold, with a couple of pink roses fancifully painted on the hippogriff's neck and rump. Even though it's definitely shaped like a fantastic beast, something tells Tina that the clock is not something Newt would have picked out for himself. It doesn't look old enough to be an heirloom. It's a present, then.

Tina glances over to the bed. It's barely wide enough to hold even one person comfortably. So Newt doesn't make a habit of inviting people back to stay the night with him. Certainly nobody who would have gifted him that clock.

Unless he makes a habit of transfiguring his bed into something lavish and plush and designed for two.

As soon as she thinks the thought, Tina can't help laughing at how ludicrous the idea is. This is _Newt_ they're talking—thinking—about here. He's opened himself up to her now, but she only has to remember what he was like when she first met him. He wouldn't meet her eyes, and he hardly said anything at all that first night they had dinner with Queenie and Jacob at her apartment.

Newt's not smooth and conventionally charming. He's not the kind of guy to sweep unsuspecting young witches off their feet.

That's one of the things that Tina likes about him.

She wishes he were here right now.

Tina leaves the bedroom. There's one more door she hasn't tried yet—the one leading off the living room. It leads through a tiny dining room containing a small table stacked with books and scrolls and sacks of animal feed, and into a small kitchen. Looking around at the cabinets, and checking the mostly-empty pantry, Tina realises that she's ravenously hungry. She lost most of her breakfast on the ground in that park where the portkey deposited her, so she feels like she hasn't eaten at all today. And so what if it's still morning in New York? It's well into the afternoon here, and she hasn't had lunch.

She hunts around, and finds butter and cheese in the icebox. Along with half a loaf of reasonably fresh bread from the breadbox in the pantry, it's enough to make a basic meal. Tina's wand skills are more than adequate when it comes to slicing bread and cheese and setting it to cook under the grill. Soon the bread is toasting and the cheese is melting, and she flips it onto a plate.

She's glad nobody's around to see how quickly she devours the cheese on toast. She finishes things off with a glass of water—no way is she attempting tea again today, and there doesn't seem to be any coffee—and feels a lot better than she has at any moment since she arrived in London.

Almost any moment.

That silly smile is back on her face. She can feel it.

Tina makes a point of checking the icebox to see if the freezing spell is intact. She's experienced enough puddles on the kitchen floor, thanks to blocks of ice melting when they shouldn't, to know better than to trust commercial freezing spells. But Newt's icebox appears to be working the way it should, so Tina cleans up the lunch things, along with the cups and plates she finds in the sink, and considers what to do next.

Obviously, she's going to go out. Not to the wizarding street that Theseus mentioned, though. It sounds interesting, but Tina's used to moving about a big city full of No-Majs without any of them being the wiser that there's a witch in their midst. London can't be much different in that respect, and besides, she needs to scout around a little and get her bearings.

She grabs her coat and heads for the door, stopping only to take Newt's spare key from the drawer of the hall stand where Theseus left it. Outside, she quickly spies the elevator at the end of the corridor. London is looking a lot like New York so far.

The elevator opens for her promptly. Tina enters and pushes the button marked 'G' for ground floor. She may not know about Diagonal Street, but she's not completely ignorant. She knows that the first floor isn't really the first floor in British buildings.

Nothing happens. After several long seconds of standing there, feeling increasingly like an idiot, Tina realises that the elevator doors aren't going to close by themselves. She quickly pulls the outer door and then the inner door shut, and the elevator lurches into life. It creaks and groans and moves so slowly that, long before she finally reaches the ground floor, Tina wishes she'd taken the stairs instead.

She steps out into the lobby, and from there it's just a few steps to the street.

It's not as cold out as it's been in New York lately, that's for sure, but it is raining. Not real rain, though. It's drizzling, just enough to be annoying.

Okay, now she can be sure she's in London.

She looks up at Newt's building, squinting into the rain. It's an impressive looking edifice, established and sure of itself. It's built of red bricks, interspersed with a great deal of fancy stonework around the windows. Perhaps it would be truer to say that the building is stone, interspersed here and there with some brickwork. The windows on the first—ground—floor are arched, and as tall as the double front doors, the stonework around them carved in intricate patterns. The whole effect is of something that says: _I am here. I was here before you and I'll still be here long after you're gone._

It all looks incredibly British, and yet somehow it doesn't feel like the right fit for Newt. Theseus would be right at home here, and probably lives somewhere almost identical. But Newt… He feels like he comes _from_ this sort of old, established Englishness but he's not _of_ it. Not any more, if he ever was. He doesn't fit it, and it doesn't fit him. He needs something less conservative, less constrained. Somewhere where fantastic beasts and magi-zoologists can roam relatively free and unfettered.

His home is yet another puzzle that makes up a man of surprises and contradictions.

Tina takes a step back from the building to get a better look at the arched windows, and collides with a portly gentleman in a pinstripe suit and a bowler hat who happens to be walking past at that moment.

"Sorry!" Tina exclaims, clutching at the man's arm before they both tumble over.

"No apology necessary, _Miss Goldstein_ ," the man says, in a very definite east coast American accent.

Tina's eyes widen in surprise. "You… you know who I am?" she asks.

"Dalton Murcutt, at your service," he says, holding out a hand.

Tina takes his hand cautiously and they exchange a brief handshake.

"Murcutt? Mr Murcutt's the head of the Department of International Magical Relations at MACUSA."

"My cousin," Dalton Murcutt says, nodding.

That figures. The other Mr Murcutt's family connections are the main reason why he's a head of department.

"Do you work for MACUSA too?" Tina asks bluntly. There doesn't seem to be any reason to beat around the bush with this guy. He's the one who turned up right here and now in a coincidence that's probably no coincidence at all.

"Of course. I'm the head of the London Office."

"Could you show me your credentials, please?" Tina asks.

Mr Murcutt looks slightly affronted. "You don't think that I-"

"I don't know anything about you except what you've told me. Could you show me your credentials, please?" Tina repeats steadily.

Muttering something under his breath, Mr Murcutt reaches into his coat and produces an official MACUSA ID card. Tina checks it carefully. It's filled out in the regulation green ink, and all the details fit the man before her. It still doesn't mean that it's really him, though. Grindelwald used Mr Graves' ID card for who knows how long when he took over his identity last year, with no one at MACUSA suspecting a thing.

She nods. "Thank you," she says. "What do you want with me?"

Mr Murcutt smiles. "Why, to take you to afternoon tea, my dear."

"Tea?" Tina's not sure what the expression on her face must look like right now, but it's clear from Mr Murcutt's raised eyebrows that she hasn't provided the expected response to his offer.

"Indeed," he says. "We have things to discuss, and it's easier to do that over tea rather than in the middle of the street, don't you think?"

"All right," Tina says. It's clear that she doesn't have much choice. It's also clear that Dalton Murcutt has been in London too long, if he's starting to think that a cup of tea will solve any problem. She'll go with him, but she'll be on her guard. As long as they're in a public place, it will be hard for him to play any dirty tricks, whether he really is Mr Murcutt or not.

"Good. It's not far, just a couple of blocks away, but do you think you could…" He indicates her pants with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure that in New York trousers for ladies are all the rage this season, but not in London. Maybe a nice dress?" he suggests delicately.

Tina doesn't have to wonder about the expression on her face this time.

"Wait here," she says, and stomps back into the building. She ducks into the alcove under the stairs, takes off her coat and gets out her wand. There's really only one outfit she's brought with her that would qualify as 'a nice dress' to wear out to tea in London in the middle of the afternoon. She raises her wand and draws it slowly down her body. When she lowers her wand, she's wearing her teal green dress and her boots have been replaced by black patent leather heels. A matching patent leather clutch purse and a teal ribbon around her usual black cloche complete the ensemble.

Tina doesn't often wear bright colours, but this dress caught her eye when she was casing a door-to-door salesman who worked out of a dress shop. Once the guy was arrested—he'd been selling expensive potion ingredients on the side, illegal ones trafficked from Brazil—she went back to the store and bought the dress. Queenie had jumped up and down and clapped her hands when she'd seen it.

The dress feels wrong, though. It's tighter-fitting than she remembers, though how can that be? If anything, she's lost a little weight in recent months. She looks down, and yes, the neckline is definitely lower than it used to be, and she can feel how it dips at the back, leaving her skin exposed to the chilly air. How could it…?

Queenie! She borrowed this dress about a month ago, and Tina hasn't worn it since. Her sister must have altered it and then forgotten, accidentally on purpose, to change it back. She's always telling Tina to experiment with her clothes and try something a little less plain and practical.

Damn Queenie! And there's no time to fiddle about, trying to get the dress back to the way it used to be. Tina will just have to wear it as it is.

She grabs her coat, shrugs it on, and stomps back out to join Mr Murcutt. She's in an even worse mood than she was when she went inside to change.

Mr Murcutt is holding up a large black umbrella. He pretends not to notice Tina's fulminating glare.

"Quite presentable," he says, looking her up and down with approval.

He offers her his arm, moving the umbrella to shield them both from the rain. They stroll down to the corner of Ryder Street and turn right. Tina doesn't want to talk, and it seems that Mr Murcutt isn't interested in chatting as they go, so they continue to walk in silence.

"I take it you've been to see Mr Scamander," Mr Murcutt remarks when they're about halfway along—Tina glances up at a street sign—St James's Street.

"Yes," Tina says. That covers everything as far as she's concerned.

"And has he awoken?"

"Yes," Tina says again.

"Good, good," Mr Murcutt says, and lapses back into silence.

Tina waits for him to try to pump her for more information, but he doesn't speak again until they turn onto a much busier road—Piccadilly.

"Ah, here we are," Mr Murcutt says, and nods in the direction of a large, imposing building. It looks even more pleased with itself than the building in Ryder Street. "Just over there. The Ritz."

Tina refuses to be impressed. "We have one of those in New York," she points out. She doesn't need to mention that she's never set foot over the threshold of the New York Ritz-Carlton.

"Not like this one."

A few minutes later, Tina is forced to admit that Mr Murcutt is right about that. There can't be another room in the world like the Palm Court at the Ritz Hotel. It's… well, 'lavish' doesn't do it justice. 'Opulent' would be a better description. Or 'outrageously excessive'. The walls are painted cream and highlighted with gold decoration, the tables are covered in soft apricot tablecloths and the chairs are upholstered in matching fabric set in gilded frames. An orchestra, just a small one, plays off to one side, while in an alcove at the far end of the room is a marble fountain festooned with gilded sculptures of scantily-clad nymphs reaching up towards the glass and wrought-iron ceiling. And that's not to mention the great crystal chandeliers. Oh, and the palms. There are large palms in ornately decorated pots set at precise intervals all around the walls.

Tina tries not to stare. She's glad she's wearing the teal green dress with Queenie's modifications. It's sufficiently dressed up for a place like this. Just.

The Palm Court is busy, even in the middle of the afternoon. Groups of well-dressed, well-heeled people sit around and sip tea poured from silver teapots, and eat cakes and sandwiches from many-tiered cake stands while being waited on by smartly-dressed staff in black and white uniforms. But there's one other thing about them that Tina notices immediately.

"They're all No-Majs, right?" she whispers to Mr Murcutt.

"You've got a good eye," he says. "Don't worry. We're not staying in here."

He ushers her to the far end of the room, to what Tina took to be a large, many-panelled window. As she gets closer, she realises that it's a mirror.

"Follow me. Don't rush, just walk normally," Mr Murcutt instructs, putting action to his words and ambling forward toward the mirror. He vanishes into it.

Tina does as she's told, and a few seconds later she joins him on the other side of the mirror.

It looks like she was wrong about there being no other room in the world like the Palm Court. The room they're in looks exactly the same as the Palm Court, right down to the potted palms and the golden nymphs on the fountain. In fact, Tina realises as she lets her gaze wander, it's an exact mirror image of the original. The only real differences are that the waiters here Disapparate after they take an order and the music is played by a goblin orchestra, while wands are being used to levitate cakes onto plates and to pour tea into teacups.

A tall waiter with a pencil moustache appears before them.

"My regular table," Mr Murcutt murmurs.

"Of course, sir," the waiter replies, and shows them to a table close to the fountain and just far enough away from the orchestra that they don't need to raise their voices to be heard over the music.

Once they're seated, Tina checks the menu. The only options are "high tea accompanied by a selection of teacakes, scones, pastries and sandwiches" followed by a list of about twenty different types of tea.

"Coffee," Tina mutters.

"I'm afraid not," Mr Murcutt replies, with a slightly patronising smile that immediately raises Tina's hackles. "Can I suggest the lapsang souchong, if your taste runs more to a stronger flavour?"

Tina wants to say no, she'll choose something else, but she doesn't know the difference between a darjeeling and an oolong, or even if there is any real difference.

"All right," she says, and lays the menu back down on the table in front of her.

"A pot of lapsang souchong," Mr Murcutt tells the waiter, who is hovering nearby.

The waiter nods briskly and whisks their menus away again. He Disapparates silently.

Tina looks across the table at Mr Murcutt. "So now we're here, tell me what it is that we need to discuss."

"You're very… direct," Mr Murcutt observes, as though it's a failing, but he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out an envelope, which he hands to Tina.

It has her name written in flowing script on the front. She opens it and quickly peruses the single sheet of paper inside. The message is short and to the point.

 

> _New York, January 29, 1927_
> 
> _Goldstein,_
> 
> _I trust you've arrived in London safely and have made contact with the Ministry's officials and Mr Scamander._
> 
> _As soon as you have ascertained anything of substance regarding the matters we discussed prior to your departure, report back to Dalton Murcutt, head of the London Office. He will send your reports on to New York._
> 
> _Wait for further instructions from Mr Murcutt before making any follow-up moves on anything you may discover.  
>    
>  _
> 
> _Seraphina Picquery_
> 
> _President, MACUSA_

Below is the familiar MACUSA seal.

"I really am the head of the London Office," Mr Murcutt says.

"Who else would you be?" Tina asks coolly, trying to pretend that she hasn't been wondering about this all along.

"Of course you suspected me," Mr Murcutt replies. "Just as any good Auror should. It pays not to take anything at face value."

"That's true," Tina says, thinking again about just how long Grindelwald deceived everyone at MACUSA when he impersonated Mr Graves last year. Newt had been the first one to work it out, but the rest of them still hadn't really seen it until he cast _revelio_ there in that subway tunnel.

"You may cast the revelio charm on me if you wish," Mr Murcutt says, apparently reading her thoughts. "It won't have any effect. I am who I say I am."

"You're a legilimens?" Tina asks sharply.

Mr Murcutt gives a short bark of laughter. "No. I'm just practised in reading people. All the little tics and tells that give them away."

Tina folds up the letter and puts it carefully in her purse. Then she gets out her wand. "Just to be absolutely sure," she says, a little apologetically.

Mr Murcutt spreads out his hands before him as Tina whispers the spell.

Nothing happens.

Mr Murcutt tweaks his silk pocket square, the picture of well-dressed nonchalance.

The tension drains out of Tina, and she sighs. "I don't have much to report yet," she says. "Except that yesterday's storm was definitely magical in nature, and that Grindelwald was somehow involved."

"That's a good start." He looks about to say more but afternoon tea appears on the table.

The top of the cake stand is higher than Tina's head. The bottom tier is filled with small, rectangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The fillings don't look like any of the usual ones that Tina knows from New York, but they look very inviting just the same. The second tier of the cake stand is covered in scones, far more than the two of them could eat. A small bowl of strawberry jam and another of cream are sitting on the table, ready to be spread onto the scones. The top tier is piled high with fancy little cakes, all of them different. They remind her of the cakes in the window of that fancy French patisserie a few blocks from MACUSA. These probably all have special names, most likely in French, but it's not like knowing them would help her. She'd have to try them all to have a hope of working out what's in them.

She's beginning to regret the toast and cheese she ate just before she left Newt's apartment.

"Shall I be Mother?" Mr Murcutt asks.

"Uh?" Tina's not quite sure how to answer that, or if she should even try.

"My apologies. Perhaps I've been over here a little too long. It's an English expression meaning 'Shall I pour the tea?'"

"Oh." Tina nods. He's definitely been over here too long. "Yes, please do."

The brew that emerges from the spout of the shining silver teapot is dark, much darker than the tea that Tina made at the hospital. It also has an unusual aroma. It smells like…

"Bacon. It smells like bacon," Tina says in astonishment. Being raised Jewish, she's never eaten bacon, but before she and Queenie moved to their current apartment, they lived in a boarding house run by a Mrs Murphy. She cooked bacon and eggs for breakfast every morning. Once smelled, fried bacon is hard to forget.

"Some people say that, yes," Mr Murcutt agrees. "It doesn't taste like bacon, though its flavour is distinctive. The tea is smoked over pine leaves instead of being left to dry naturally."

"I see," Tina says, doing her best to stop her eyes glazing over. That's more about tea production than she's ever wanted to know. To stop herself from having to contribute anything more to the conversation, she sips the tea and yes, Mr Murcutt is right, it definitely has a distinctive flavour. Tina's not sure if she'd go so far as to say that she likes it, but at least it doesn't taste like boiled socks with a few bitter leaves thrown in as an afterthought.

"When are you intending to see Mr Scamander again?" Mr Murcutt asks quietly.

Tina blinks, and swallows the mouthful of tea. "I'll be going back to check on him later this afternoon."

"Good. Excellent, in fact."

"Why?" Tina asks. She's willing to accept that Mr Murcutt is who he says he is, but that still doesn't mean she entirely trusts him.

"The Minister for Magic will be meeting with Madam Picquery in New York early next week. It will be useful to check what the Minister chooses to tell the President against whatever intelligence you can gather from Mr Scamander."

Tina nods, mainly because she's not quite sure what to say. She'll have to be very careful in how much she shares with Mr Murcutt. It's not that she isn't one hundred per cent loyal to MACUSA. It's just that she knows she has to go after Grindelwald herself, if Newt's right and the Ministry has found evidence that he really is here, and finish what was started back in New York. She'll never forget what happened to poor Credence, and the blame for that rests squarely with Grindelwald.

She takes a sandwich and nibbles on it, then pauses. Cucumber sandwiches! She chews carefully, appreciating the full experience.

"Where is your office?" Tina asks once she's finished the cucumber sandwich. "I mean, how do I find you, when I need to make a report?"

"My office is at the Muggle US Embassy. Or, rather, it's where the Muggle US Embassy used to be. We stayed put when they moved down to Grosvenor Gardens. Just ask for me at the reception desk."

"And just where is the old No-Maj US Embassy?" Tina asks as patiently as she can, which admittedly isn't very patiently at all.

"Why, here in Piccadilly. Just across the road. It makes tea at the Ritz very convenient."

"Yes, I can see that," Tina agrees, remembering the other Mr Murcutt. It seems like a penchant for long, lavish lunches—or afternoon teas—runs in the family.

She tries a scone next. The strawberry preserve is sweet with chunks of fruit, and the cream is so thick that it's almost like butter.

"Clotted cream from Devonshire," Mr Murcutt tells her, busily taking some for his own scone.

They continue like that for quite a while, working their way through the contents of the cake stand and several cups of tea while exchanging chit-chat about tea versus coffee, the differences between life in London and New York, and occasionally more serious questions and answers about Tina's work, and about Newt.

It's only once Mr Murcutt has paid the check and Tina thinks back over the course of the conversation that she realises how many little details he's gotten out of her. He knows how long she's been working for MACUSA, and that Queenie is her only family in the world. He knows that she and Newt were present when they captured Grindelwald last year, and that she used to work at the Wand Permit Office—though not how and why she ended up there. There's nothing really important in any of it, but to a skilled operative it would be more than enough to put together quite a comprehensive picture of her, and of what might be going on between her and Newt.

She'll have to do better in their future meetings.

"Thank you for afternoon tea," she says sincerely as they step out onto the street once more. "It was quite the London experience."

"You're more than welcome, Miss Goldstein. Though may I suggest that you not try Apparating from here. Londoners are skilled at not seeing a great many things, but inevitably someone will talk."

"Oh, no, there's no chance of that. I'll be walking off that afternoon tea for days to come!" Tina assures him.

"Well then, until our next meeting." He raises his hat to her, and, with a great deal more grace than she would have expected of a man of his age and proportions, slips into the crowd and is gone.

Tina hurries back along St James's Street. It's no longer drizzling, though the sky is still grey and threatening more rain. At least this part of London is easy to navigate. Most of the important things seem to be close together, and there are plenty of sign posts.

She makes it back to Newt's building without incident. Once inside, she looks over at the elevator and then at the stairs. No way is she getting in that elevator again, but the stairs are equally unappealing. Her left shoe is beginning to chafe against her heel and she's sure she can feel a blister forming.

Looking around to make sure that there's no one else about, she Apparates up to Newt's front door.

She hears the first thump as soon as she opens the door. It's quickly followed by another, and then another. The noises are coming from the bedroom. Something or someone is in there. Seeing as this is Newt's home, Tina would put her money on 'something'.

Setting her purse down on the hallway stand, Tina wastes no time in opening the bedroom door: " _Alohomora!_ " She raises her wand, ready to hex whatever is waiting in there.

Instead, she stands stock still and blinks in utter surprise.

"Oh, there you are, Tina," Newt says brightly. If Tina ignores the bandage around his head, at first glance he looks almost like his usual self. He's wearing his blue coat and he's gripping the handle of his suitcase tightly in one hand. At second glance, though, Tina notices that he's leaning heavily against the closet door, and he's wearing pyjama bottoms instead of pants. His feet are bare.

"What are you doing here? You should still be in the hospital!" Tina exclaims.

"I decided not to stay there any longer, so I… well, I came home." Newt shrugs and holds a hand out as if to say, _What else could I do?_

Tina realises he's going to fall a split second before his eyes roll back and the suitcase drops to the ground. She bridges the distance between them, somehow, before Newt hits the floor. His weight is too heavy for her, and they sink down together onto the rug.

"Oh, you idiot," Tina whispers as she cradles him against her and strokes his back. She presses a kiss to his temple.

Once he wakes up, they're really going to have to have that talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryder Street is real. The building Newt lives in isn't, but there are (and were) many buildings like it in that street and in that part of London.
> 
> The Palm Court at the Ritz is also real. Google it if you're curious. It's pretty over the top!


	11. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diagon Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Telanu for her eagle eye beta, as usual!

Newt awakens to darkness, groggily relieved that he appears to have beaten the hippogriff alarm clock this morning. He wonders what time it is, and reaches over to the bedside table for his wand.

" _Lumos_."

He blinks at the sudden soft light, and squints at the clock. It's nearly half past five. He should think about getting up. What day is it? He lifts his head. It doesn't feel right. There's something wrapped around his head—and he remembers. It's Saturday, and it's not morning but afternoon, or at least it was when he…

How did he end up in bed? Newt remembers standing in this room, having just barely managed not to splinch himself Apparating home from the hospital. Then the bedroom door flew open to reveal Tina standing in the doorway, looking more surprised than glad to see him. And then… His legs had folded beneath him like an unreliable deck chair and… Nothing.

He glances down the length of the bed. He's lying under the covers, still wearing his pyjamas, but his coat is gone and his suitcase is—he looks around the room before letting out a sigh of relief—sitting by the door, safely shut.

Tina must have undressed him—well, taken his coat off, at any rate—and then used _Mobilicorpus_ or some similar spell to move him to the bed.

He touches the top of his head, exploring gently with his fingers. The bandage is still in place, but it doesn't feel as though anything is seriously damaged. His head doesn't even really hurt any more. Newt pulls himself up on his elbows and turns his head back and forth a few times. There's still no real pain.

He sits up properly and pulls back the covers, and then slowly, carefully gets out of bed.

So far, so good.

Newt discovers his coat hanging in the wardrobe, but passes it over in favour of his dressing-gown and a pair of carpet slippers. Tying the cord of the dressing-gown, he slips out into the hallway. There's light coming from the living room.

Tina is curled up on the sofa, reading a book.

Newt stands in the doorway and just takes in the sight of her for a moment. Here she is, in his home, somewhere he never truly thought to see her. She looks relaxed, or at least as relaxed as Tina ever looks. A lock of hair has fallen forward onto her cheek.

Newt remembers the feel of her hair, silky against his fingers, as he tucked that lock of hair back behind her ear, that day at the dock in New York. He remembers the look in her eyes as her gaze met his. He remembers all the dreams he's had of that moment, and how differently it could have turned out.

He should have kissed her—and now, of course, he has. It hasn't been the solution or resolution that he so fondly imagined it would have been. He still doesn't really know where he stands with Tina.

Perhaps he moves, because Tina glances up and sees him.

"Feeling better?" she asks, putting the book down on the sofa and getting up.

"Not too bad, I think." Newt nods. Tina's wearing her usual trousers and white blouse, but wasn't she wearing a dress right before he passed out? If she was, there's no sign of it now.

"Good. That's good," Tina says.

They continue to stand there, not quite looking at each other, as the silence lengthens into awkwardness.

"Do you think-"  
"Your brother-"

They both start talking at the same time, then stop. Tina gives a short, nervous laugh; Newt looks down at his slippers.

"You first. Please," he says, chancing a quick glance at Tina.

"Uh, okay. Theseus dropped by an hour or so ago. He seemed a little annoyed that you'd discharged yourself from the hospital, but not all that surprised."

"Yes, well. Theseus knows me rather well—though the word 'discharge' is perhaps too specific a term for what I did. I just… left."

"Now _that_ doesn't surprise me," Tina says. "You've been ignoring rules since the moment I met you."

"Only when they're inconvenient," Newt protests.

"What was inconvenient about St Mungo's? You haven't exactly been in a condition to do anything but lie in bed."

"Exactly. The Healer kept giving me potions that caused me to become unconscious. That sort of thing makes me nervous."

"She was a little odd," Tina agrees. "But are you sure you're okay to be at home? You looked pretty terrible right before you passed out."

"I think that was just the residual effect of the potion. I really am almost healed, or at least I think I am. They were planning to keep me in overnight for observation, but they probably would have released me tomorrow in any case."

"So I'd better observe you overnight instead." Tina flushes as soon as the words are out of her mouth. "I mean keep an eye- Oh, you know what I mean!"

"Being observed by you is entirely preferable to being watched by Healer McCormack," Newt says, which is really only the truth. Tina is still pink-cheeked, so he adds, "Would you mind helping me get this bandage off? I _think_ my head is mostly healed, but I'd like to check."

"Of course," Tina says, and hurries over.

The bandage starts unwrapping itself obediently at a tap from Tina's wand, and soon it's lying in a neat coil in her hands.

"How does it look?" Newt asks.

"Come over to the light," Tina says, taking him by the hand and dragging him over to the lamp. It's only when they get there that she seems to realise that they're holding hands. "Bend down a little," she says, dropping his hand as if it might bite, and reaching up to push his hair away and examine his scalp.

Newt bends down as instructed. Tina's standing so close that he can feel her breath, warm against his ear. He doesn't move back even a fraction of an inch.

"It doesn't look too bad," she declares at last, "but I can't say the same for your hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?" Newt asks, alarmed.

"It looks as if someone was a little careless trimming your hair so that they could check your injuries," Tina answers. "It's… a little uneven."

Newt reaches up to the top of his head and feels around a bit. His hair feels wrong. Far too short. So short that it feels almost like stubble in places.

"Just a moment!" he tells Tina, and sprints for the bedroom. Once there, he stands before the mirror and scrutinises his appearance. His hair doesn't look quite as bad as he'd feared. From the front, he appears almost like his usual self, right down to the shaggy fringe falling across his forehead. It's really more on the top of his head and down the back…

He digs in the top drawer of the dressing table and eventually unearths a small hand mirror. He enlarges it and sets it to hovering in the air behind his head. Then it's just a matter of angling his head the right way and whatever the hand mirror is showing will be reflected back to the main-

Oh, no! Hanks of hair have been sheared off here and there without any apparent design. The back of his head looks like it's gone a few rounds with an angry Malaclaw. Newt just hopes that his impromptu haircut doesn't turn out to be as unlucky as the Malaclaw's bite is said to be.

"Like I said, it's a little uneven," Tina says from the doorway.

"Indeed," Newt says. "Some Manegro potion should fix it."

"Oh, well. It's not a problem, then." Tina smiles in an encouraging sort of way and comes over to join him by the mirror.

"Except that I don't have any, or the ingredients to make some."

"Oh. Well." Tina's smile fades.

Newt glances over at the clock on the bedside table. It's only just after half past five. The apothecary's should still be open.

"How do you feel about a quick shopping expedition?" he asks.

Tina wrinkles her brow in an expression that's not quite a frown. "Okaaay," she says. "Do I have to get all dressed up?"

Newt looks her over. She's wearing her usual trousers and white blouse. "No. You look fine," he says truthfully. Is that the answer she wants? Should he have said something else?

Apparently not, because Tina's brow smooths out and she says, "Just let me get my hat and coat."

While Tina goes to fetch her things, Newt changes quickly and then rummages in the wardrobe for a hat of his own. He really doesn't think he's a vain person, but he doesn't want to go out in public without a hat to hide under while his hair is… the way it is. After a thorough search, the best he can do is his old Panama hat with the faded blue band, which he'd worn to keep the sun off his face when he was doing fieldwork in Equatorial Guinea. A battered straw hat isn't exactly the thing for a January evening in London, but it will have to do. If he were Theseus, he'd no doubt be wearing a black Fedora, tilted at the perfect jaunty angle to keep a little of his face mysterious and shadowy.

But he's not Theseus and it's never occurred to him—until now—that he would have need of a Fedora. He tugs the Panama hat down as low as it will go at the back, pulls on his blue coat, and goes out to find Tina.

She's standing in the hallway, waiting for him, looking very much as she always does, except…

"Your hat looks nice," he says.

Tina's eyes widen. "Oh?"

"The er, the green, uh, ribbon, I mean. I haven't seen it before. It looks nice."

"Oh. Yeah. It's new." For some reason, Tina looks almost as self-conscious as Newt feels.

"Well, then. Shall we depart?"

Tina stops him with a hand on his arm when he would have led the way back to the living room.

"I… you're not planning on Apparating, are you?" Tina looks uncertain. "Because even if you are feeling better than you were before, it still took a lot out of you, and I'd just feel better if… we didn't Apparate," she finishes a bit lamely, as if her sentence lost its way halfway through.

"No, we don't need to Apparate. We'll take the Floo Network," Newt says. "Through the fireplace."

Tina's grip tightens on Newt's arm. "Through the fireplace? You mean you really travel that way here?"

"Uh, yes?" Newt replies.

"I thought that was just a story."

"No, no. The Floo Network is quite real."

"Flue? You travel through the flue in the chimney? That doesn't sound like much fun."

"Not flue. Floo," Newt tries to explain. "We travel through the flames."

"That sounds even worse," Tina observes.

"No, it's really not. It's not ordinary fire. Look, I'll show you."

Tina still looks unconvinced, but she lets go of his arm and allows Newt to lead her back to the living room.

"It's quite simple, really. First, you light the fire." Newt points his wand at the cold fireplace and says, " _Incendio!"_ The fireplace comes to life in a welter of orange and yellow flames. "Then you take a good pinch of floo powder and throw it into the flames,"—he takes his box of floo powder from its place on the mantelpiece—"and then you step in, say the name of your destination clearly—that's important—and away you go."

"And there's no possibility of, oh, I don't know, burning to death on the way?" Tina asks.

"The floo powder takes all the heat out of the fire. So long as the flames are green, you should be fine."

Tina eyes the bright orange flames, which are licking the fireplace's marble sides, then looks at Newt for a long moment, and then looks back at the flames. "I guess I'll just have to decide to trust you, then, won't I?"

"Is that so difficult a decision?" Newt asks. He really thought that he'd earned Tina's trust after everything they'd been through together in New York.

"No," Tina says, and Newt's heart sinks, until she continues, "I've trusted you with my life before now. I think I can trust you with my well-being."

Newt's lips twitch in indecision. He's not sure whether he wants to smile or say something. Finally, he settles on a quiet, "Good," and then the smile follows quick on its heels anyway.

Tina smiles back. They share another long silence. This one is a lot less awkward than the last one was—until Newt looks away.

In some confusion, Newt hands her the box of floo powder.

"So, a pinch of this stuff and then I step into the fire?" Tina asks. Her cheeks are pink again, though maybe that's just from standing so close to the fire.

Newt nods. "Your destination is Diagon Alley."

Tina takes some floo powder between her thumb and forefinger and throws it into the fire. The fire roars as the flames leap even higher before turning a brilliant green.

Tina eyes it dubiously.

"I can go first if you like," Newt offers.

"Don't be silly," Tina says, and hands the box of floo powder back to Newt. She takes a deep breath, steps into the fireplace and says, "Diagon Alley," in a clear voice. She vanishes.

Newt waits a few moments before throwing his own pinch of floo powder onto the fire, and then he follows her through. He's caught in the familiar whoosh and whirl of the Floo Network. Fireplace after fireplace rushes by and he closes his eyes to stop himself from getting dizzy.

He steps out of the fireplace in the back parlour of the Leaky Cauldron to find a slightly sooty Tina sprawled in a large wingback chair.

"It's not as bad as taking a Portkey across the Atlantic," she observes with a wry little smile by way of greeting.

Her first experience of travelling by Floo hasn't gone too badly then. Newt doesn't quite sigh in relief. Instead, he digs in his pocket for the small brush he keeps there, and offers it to Tina. "When you travel by Floo regularly, you learn to keep a brush on your person for these sorts of occasions," he explains.

"Thanks," Tina says, getting up to brush herself down. That done, she hands the brush back to Newt, who brushes the soot off himself in turn. "So this is Diagon Alley, huh?" she asks, looking around.

"Well, this is the Leaky Cauldron," Newt says. "The entrance to Diagon Alley is out in the courtyard."

Tina follows him out through the back of the bar, where he's greeted by Bert, the publican.

"Newt!" Bert exclaims. "You haven't stopped in for a pint in ages, old son. Or your brother!"

"Theseus's work keeps him away from London much of the time," Newt says. He tries to continue on towards the back door, but then Bert spies Tina.

"And who is this lovely young witch? I don't believe we've met. Surely you'll introduce us, _old son_?" Bert says, with a large, unsubtle wink at Newt.

"We're in a hurry, Bert," Newt replies. But he sighs, and adds, "Miss Tina Goldstein, may I present Mr Alberto Parmenter, proprietor of this establishment."

"Hi," says Tina. "This is a… nice place you've got here."

"Why, are you American, my dear?" Bert says. "Did Newt here find you on his travels?" His eyebrows have risen in an expression of disbelief that isn't exactly flattering to Newt. But then, he's never seen Newt in here with a woman. Or with anyone to speak of, really, apart from Theseus.

"Something like that," Tina says. "And now if you'll excuse us?"

"Of course, of course," Bert says expansively, and turns back to Newt. "You must bring your young lady back for a drink later. First one's on the house."

"She's not my-"

"What he means is that we'd like that very much, wouldn't we, honey?" Tina interrupts, her voice taking on a quality that reminds him rather alarmingly of her sister Queenie, as she takes Newt's arm and snuggles in against him. "But now we really do have to go. It was so nice meeting you, Mr Parmenter." And then she's steering Newt towards the back door.

Newt casts one last glance over his shoulder at a bemused-looking Bert, before Tina hustles him out the door.

She stops as soon as they're outside and takes a look around the unprepossessing courtyard. It's walled, and not very large, and contains little of note apart from a small pile of rubbish. The occasional weed dotted here and there provides the only hint of colour. The rain is setting in, which only serves to make the courtyard seem all the more dismal.

"This is the entrance to Diagon Alley?" Tina asks in her usual voice. She doesn't sound terribly impressed, but she also doesn't let go of Newt's arm. He decides not to mention it.

"Yes." Newt squints in the dim light emanating from the Leaky Cauldron's windows, counting bricks. Then he taps the wall three times with his wand, and steps back.

A brick near the middle of the wall moves, as if alive, revealing a hole that grows and keeps on growing, until suddenly there's a tall archway where the wall was a moment ago, and the cobbles of Diagon Alley glisten, wet and slippery, on the other side.

Newt glances at Tina, to see if she's still unimpressed, and bites down on a smile: she's standing there with her mouth open. But only for the briefest of moments. She shuts her mouth hastily, though her eyebrows are still raised as she turns to Newt.

"Well, we'd better get to the apothecary's before they close," she says.

"Yes, we'd better," Newt agrees, and they set off arm-in-arm down Diagon Alley without another word.

It's not far to Slug & Jiggers, which is lucky considering that the weather is one of the few things that Diagon Alley shares with Muggle London, but Newt still feels a pang of disappointment as the apothecary's heaves into view. He can feel the warmth of Tina's hand against his arm even through his coat sleeve. He'd probably feel it through twenty coat sleeves.

The sign in the window says "open", so they've made it here in time. They duck into the apothecary's, breaking apart to shake the raindrops from their coats, and Newt tries not to feel bereft.

An elderly, beetle-browed wizard scowls at them from behind the counter. "We're about to shut up shop for the evening, you know," he growls.

"Yes, but you haven't shut up shop yet, so I'd like to make a purchase," Newt says calmly. It's amazing what a year spent in the field can do for one's equanimity. Once, not so long ago, the shopkeeper's unwelcoming attitude would have made him very nervous indeed.

"I hope you're not expecting to place a large order at this time of day."

"Nothing large or complicated. All I require is a bottle of Manegro potion."

The apothecary's scowl deepens. "I'll see if we have any in stock," he says, in a tone that makes the statement almost a warning, and stumps off through the door behind the counter that presumably leads to the stockroom.

Tina is looking around the room with interest. "So many barrels," she says, lifting the lid and peering into one, which proves to be filled with tiny black seeds.

"Eye of newt, otherwise known as mustard seeds," Newt says, looking at them closely. "They used to give me hell for that at school—amongst other things."

"Try being called Porpentina sometime," Tina says dryly. "There's a reason why I prefer to go by 'Tina'."

"Tina suits you much better, anyway," Newt says, and is rewarded with one of Tina's sudden smiles. "I suppose I should have tried going by Newton—that's my full name."

Tina shakes her head. "No, it doesn't suit you. You don't look like a Newton, you look like a Newt."

"Newton and Porpentina sound like a rather self-important couple, don't they? I think Newt and Tina sound much nicer."

"Do you, Newt?" Tina asks. She's looking straight at him, and suddenly the conversation doesn't seem to be about names any more.

"Manegro potion!" The apothecary sets the bottle down on the counter with a thump that makes Newt jump. "That's what you asked for, isn't it?" He looks from Newt to Tina in dour satisfaction.

"Yes, yes. How much?" Newt asks.

"One galleon, four sickles and twelve knuts."

Newt's eyes widen. "That's highway robbery!" He can't remember ever paying more than a galleon for any ordinary household potion before, and usually considerably less.

The apothecary shrugs, but there's a malicious glint in his eye. "Try one of the other apothecaries, then."

Knowing full well that they're now too late to obtain the potion from any of the other apothecaries in Diagon Alley before closing time, Newt grits his teeth and reaches into his pocket for his coin purse. He's sorely tempted to pay entirely in knuts, but then they'd no doubt just have to wait longer while the blasted apothecary counted every single one. Instead, he counts out twenty-one sickles plus the twelve knuts, and hands them over.

The apothecary checks the payment carefully, counting just under his breath, then rings up the purchase on the huge, ancient cash register.

He looks from Newt to Tina and back to Newt again. "We're closed," he says, and comes out from behind the counter, but only so he can go over to the door. He turns the sign in the window from "open" to "closed", and then opens the door, giving Newt and Tina a pointed look.

Newt takes the potion from the counter, and Tina links her arm firmly through his. "Thank you for your friendly service," she tells the apothecary in withering tones as she sweeps both herself and Newt—who hangs on and goes along for the ride—out the door.

The door slams shut behind them and they find themselves out on the street once more.

Beside Newt, Tina is fuming. "The nerve of that guy! Acting as if doing his job is some sort of imposition, and then telling us the shop was closed like that!"

"Well, at least we got the potion." Newt holds up the bottle. "Some of the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley can be a bit eccentric," he tries to explain. "I hadn't met that one before, and he was definitely ruder than most, but he's not entirely atypical."

Tina still looks less than impressed. "So what do we do now? He didn't even give you a moment to apply the potion before he kicked us out."

"I can give you a guided tour of Diagon Alley, if you like," Newt offers, "but it's probably better to do that sort of thing in daylight."

"And when it's not raining," Tina agrees, holding one hand palm-up and watching as a few raindrops hit it. "Why don't we go back to the Leaky Cauldron and apply the potion before we do anything else?"

"Very well," Newt says, but without much enthusiasm. He doesn't particularly want to return to the Leaky Cauldron and face more unsubtle looks and even less subtle questions from Bert. As soon as they get there, Bert will make good on his offer of a drink on the house, but only so that he can ply them with more drinks which most definitely won't be on the house. But still, they do need to get out of this rain, and Newt would rather not Apparate straight back to his flat. He and Tina are out together in the evening without any absconding fantastic beasts or malignant magical forces to worry about, and he intends to make the most of it. He's painfully aware that the opportunity may—will almost certainly—never present itself again.

They set off along Diagon Alley at a brisk pace, but almost immediately the rain starts coming down harder. Newt raises his wand and an invisible umbrella pops out of the tip. The umbrella isn't all that large, and Tina huddles in close against him to keep from getting wet. Newt almost points out that she could easily use her own wand to shield herself from the rain, but in the end he keeps silent because… well, because the opportunity may never present itself again.

Of course, he could always enlarge his own umbrella with very little difficulty, but he doesn't do that, either. He doesn't want to do anything that will give Tina reason to move away. It's a strange feeling, having one's entire awareness shrink down to just the one side of the body because someone else is standing there. Walking there. Newt's left side could be saturated and frozen for all he knows or cares; his right side is warm and dry. The soft hairs on the back of his right hand brush against Tina's coat sleeve and make his skin tingle.

If, instead of going forwards, his next step turned inwards, he could lean in and kiss her, almost as he did when she sat beside him on his hospital bed. It would be so easy, and he's almost sure she'd welcome it.

Almost.

Almost isn't good enough, so Newt keeps putting one foot in front of the other, keeps holding his wand up between them, keeps everything moving, or thinks he does, until Tina stops and asks:

"Are you all right, Newt?"

"What? Oh, yes. Perfectly. Why do you ask?" Newt has no choice but to come to a halt as well, since Tina is holding on tight to his arm.

"You went all quiet."

And he realises he's forgotten to keep the conversation going.

"Is this the place?" Tina points at the wall.

"You have a good memory for detail," he says, lowering the umbrella into nothingness and aiming his wand at the wall.

Tina shrugs. "I'm an Auror. The job is all about noticing detail." Which of course is true, so Newt's attempt at a compliment falls quite flat.

Umbrella-less, they make it back into the Leaky Cauldron's courtyard without getting terribly wet. Newt considers staying outside to apply the Manegro potion, but Tina is already hurrying to the back door and the welcoming light beyond.

Newt follows her inside, and finds the bar filled with more patrons than before.

"Back for that drink, Newt?" Bert calls.

Newt pretends not to hear and hurries through the bar to the back parlour. Fortunately, the parlour is deserted at this hour, or will be until someone next arrives or departs through the fireplace, so there's no time to lose. Tina seems to be of like mind, because she's taken the potion from his hand and is unstoppering the bottle as he pulls off his hat. She glances at the back of his head and bites her lip, apparently unimpressed, but Newt is sure he glimpses a twinkle in her eye as she looks away.

"As bad as that?" he asks with a wry smile.

"Worse," Tina says, her voice level, but yes, her eyes are definitely dancing with mirth. She manages to drag her gaze away from the sight of his hair long enough to read the label on the bottle. "How much should I apply, do you think? It doesn't say on the bottle."

"Perhaps just apply a little as a test and see what happens?" Newt suggests.

Tina nods. Newt expects her to pour the potion directly onto his hair, but instead Tina looks around, spies an empty glass on the small table by one of the wing-backed chairs near the fireplace, and summons it. She hits it with a cleaning spell as well, for which Newt is profoundly grateful—who knows what the effect might be if one were to mix Manegro potion with the dregs of a glass of Firewhisky?—before pouring a small quantity of the potion into the glass. _Then_ she pours it directly onto his hair.

The effect is immediate. Tina gasps and Newt is sure that he can _feel_ his hair sprouting and lengthening, as if it is a vine that someone's cast _Herbivicus_ on.

And then it really gets going. Newt can feel it moving, growing, slipping down his neck. Newt glances around, trying to catch a glimpse of what's going on at the back of his head and his hair, now shoulder-length, flicks up into his eyes. He blinks and brushes it out of the way. It snakes down his arm to his elbow. And it's _heavy_. He's never fully appreciated just how much long hair can weigh.

He needs to do something to stop this, right now. He reaches for his wand, but Tina is quicker:

" _Secare_ ," she shouts, and the hair falls away all at once, as if shorn by a huge, invisible set of shears. It lies on the floor, twitching slightly, like a serpent that's been beheaded and doesn't quite realise it yet.

Newt heaves a sigh of relief, and brushes a few loose hairs off his coat. "Thank you," he says to Tina with feeling.

"You're welcome," Tina replies. "I think maybe we'd better dilute that stuff before we try it again. Not that you need any more right now." She produces a pair of silver scissors from somewhere. "Turn around."

That last is more like a command, so Newt does as he's told. He stays quite still as Tina snips away at the back of his head for a few moments.

"That's better," she says, and slips the scissors into an old-fashioned silver chatelaine, which she stows in her pocket. "Now your hair looks fit to be seen."

"Everything all right in here, ladies and gents?" Bert pokes his head around the door. "I thought I heard a bit of a commotion."

"Everything's fine, Bert," Newt tells him. "Just a minor mishap with a potion, but it's all been sorted out now."

"Glad to hear it. You going to have that drink then?"

A drink might indeed be welcome at this point, particularly after the day that Newt's had, but just then several more faces—patrons from the bar by the look of them—appear behind Bert, taking in the sight of Newt, Tina and the pile of red-brown hair on the floor with interest.

"Actually, no, Bert, thank you just the same. Tina and I need to be going."

"Right you are," Bert says with a nod, and vanishes back into the main bar. The other faces look disappointed, but, since there appears to be nothing worth looking at here, their owners also don't hang about.

Newt turns away from the door to find Tina looking at him.

"So, where next?" she asks.

"I thought perhaps a bite of supper? I don't keep a great deal of food at home."

Tina nods. "You got somewhere in mind? Somewhere where they won't raise their eyebrows at a witch in pants?"

Newt hasn't anywhere specific in mind, but as soon as Tina mentions what she's wearing he realises that he knows the very place. He hasn't been there in some time, but surely they must still be in business.

"Spitalfields market," he says, taking the box of floo powder from the mantelpiece and handing it to her.

" _Spit_ alfields. Sounds delightful," Tina says dryly, but she accepts the floo powder and tosses a little on the fire. She steps into the fire, names her destination clearly, and in hardly more than a moment Newt is left grinning foolishly at a fireplace empty of all but green flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as though I've been writing this chapter for ever, and it was getting hugely long, so I’ve split it in half. Chapter 12 should be along early next week.


	12. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fish and chips, and a few other unexpected things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to Telanu for looking this over with fresh eyes and helping me see it more clearly.

Newt follows Tina through the fireplace, and, just as before, finds her waiting for him at the other end. She's not sitting this time, though. She's produced her own small brush from somewhere - probably a transfigured handkerchief or some such - and is briskly brushing the soot off her shoulders.

"I think I'm starting to get the hang of this," she says by way of greeting.

"The Floo Network is really very convenient once you get used to it."

Tina nods, and looks around. They're in a small parlour, comfortably if shabbily furnished with old green upholstered armchairs that look much-loved, and a worn green and grey carpet on the floor.

"So this is Spitalfields market? It's not really my idea of a market," Tina says.

"This building faces onto the market. It's the only wizarding fireplace anywhere near here, so there's no need to be more specific."

"And just what is this building?"

"It's a place of business, though as you can see the family that runs it lives on the premises." Newt indicates the homey furniture. "Let me take you out into the main room, and you'll see." And then, very carefully, before he can let himself think better of it, he holds out his hand to her. "We _are_ engaged, after all," he points out.

Tina looks at him for a long moment. So long, that Newt has to fight the urge to look away. Just as he's about to blurt out something about not worrying about it and to forget that he said anything - Tina takes his hand. Her palm is soft and warm against his.

"We _are_ engaged," Tina says.

They both know it's not real, but just hearing her say the words makes his face grow warm, though for once not in embarrassment. Still looking at her, he reaches up with his free hand and tucks a vagrant lock of hair behind her ear. The smile she gives him is tremulous, and there's no sign of the forthright Auror that he's come to know. Instead, the witch who usually hides beneath that tough exterior stands there, open and vulnerable, trusting him, just like she did that day on the dock in New York. Her hand clutches his tight, and he closes his fingers around hers.

Hand in hand, they walk towards the door - where they're almost knocked right over by the entry of a large man. Or, rather, a small man who somehow gives the impression of being large. He's short and slight, with slightly balding dark hair, and a smile that's almost wider than he is. He fills the space he occupies in a way that suggests someone of much more substantial dimensions.

" _Brukhim Ha-Bo'im! Brukhim Ha-Bo'im!_ " the man exclaims. "Welcome! Welcome!"

" _Shkoyekh. A gut ovnt_." It's a standard greeting, one of the half-dozen or so phrases of Yiddish that Newt has picked up in his travels, but he's not the one who said it. He can barely credit that that croaked whisper came from Tina, and he glances at her sharply. She looks pale but composed.

"The lady speaks Yiddish? Then you are doubly welcome," the man declares. Fortunately, his smile doesn't widen further. Instead, it settles into something smaller and more sincere.

" _A bisele_ ," Tina says, her voice sounding more like one that belongs to her now. Does that mean that she's all right? Newt doesn't know.

"A little is worth a lot in these times," the man says, taking their hats and coats with practised ease. "You must come with me." He steps back and ushers them through the doorway.

Newt can feel Tina's nails digging into his hand. No, she's definitely not all right. The Yiddish has rattled her. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all. He squeezes her hand in what he hopes is a reassuring fashion. "We can go somewhere else, if you'd prefer," he whispers.

"No, there's no need," Tina says quickly. "I was just… surprised. It's been a while since anyone last spoke Yiddish to me, and I wasn't expecting it."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think-"

"It's _fine_ ," Tina says, perhaps a little too emphatically, but then there's no more time to talk.

The man, maitre d'hotel or head waiter or whatever one calls a person who performs that function in such a small establishment, shows them over to a small, round table in one corner of the restaurant. The lighting is dim, and a candle in a cranberry glass holder flickers in the middle of the table. It's early, but a number of the other tables are already occupied. A pair of middle-aged witches in Ministry robes share a pot of tea at a table on the other side of the room, while an elderly wizard seated near the door tucks into his dinner with gusto.

The waiter pulls out Tina's chair for her, and Newt lets go of Tina's hand so that he can take the chair opposite. His hand feels empty. It's strange, after having held Tina's hand for such a short time, that his hand feels the loss of hers.

"Cod or haddock?" the waiter asks.

A tiny frown settles between Tina's brows, and Newt realises that maybe he shouldn't have been so mysterious about their destination. He doesn't know if Tina even likes fish.

"They serve fish and chips here," he explains. "Fish fried in batter and served with… I think you'd call them French fries, though these are undoubtedly English."

"And eel," the waiter puts in. "We serve eel as well."

"And eel," Newt says, though he doesn't feel that that's exactly helping things. Tina is still frowning.

"We generally don't mention the eel to people from outside London. It tends to put them off," the waiter says with an absolutely straight face.

Tina nods, but instead of commenting on the menu, she says, "It's strange hearing someone speak Yiddish and then following it up with English in a British accent. I'm used to Yiddish being mixed with English in a New York accent."

"You're from New York? I have a cousin in New York," the waiter says, his professional mask dropping to reveal a look of real enthusiasm.

"Really?" Tina is no longer frowning. Her face is alight with interest.

It's as if they're the only two people in the room. Newt feels the loss of Tina's hand even more keenly than before. Lacking a relative of any sort in New York, he resigns himself to waiting out the rest of the conversation.

"Our family found it necessary to leave the old Russian Empire towards the end of last century."

"Many did," Tina says with a sympathetic smile.

"My father came here to London, while his brother decided that he'd try his luck in America," the waiter says, leaning heavily on the back of the third, unoccupied chair at their table.

Newt wills the man not to pull up the chair and sit himself down in it.

"That makes sense," Tina says. "I guess I hadn't thought about how many people must have left at around that time and moved all over, not just to New York."

"Spitalfields used to be the garment district. A lot of our people came here, where the work was. There are not as many of us here now as there were - but if you want to hear Yiddish spoken in London, this is the place for it."

"I didn't know I wanted to hear it - but I'm glad I did," Tina says. "I haven't spoken much Yiddish since my grandmother died, and that was years ago. It was just my sister and me after that, and we spent all our time at school, even vacation time."

Newt bites his lip and stares determinedly at the candle. Tina's never mentioned a grandmother to him, or any relations other than Queenie and her long-dead parents.

It is the waiter's turn to nod in sympathy. "So the wizarding life became your all."

"Something like that."

"I, too, when I went to Hogwarts and afterwards. I ran an establishment in Diagon Alley for many years, but now I find myself back here. Sometimes the past calls, even when one looks to the future."

He glances at Newt; Newt tries not to squirm.

"Perhaps you could take our orders?" Newt suggests, trying for and almost succeeding at politeness.

"Of course," the waiter says, and turns to Tina. "So, may I get you cod or haddock - or perhaps some nice jellied eels?" he adds with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

" _Not_ the eels," Tina says firmly. "Which fish do you suggest?"

"The cod, most definitely. You can't come to London and not try cod and chips!"

"Cod it is, then."

"Cod for me, too," Newt says quickly.

The waiter nods, and Disapparates with a crack before Newt has a chance to even mention the possibility of something to drink.

Newt and Tina are left sitting there, and somehow the distance between them seems to Newt to be much farther than the breadth of the table.

"This is… very different," Tina says.

Newt isn't sure whether that's good or bad. "Different from the places you know in New York?" he hazards, his fingers drumming so quickly on the tabletop that he very nearly upsets the sugar bowl.

"Well yeah, that too. But I actually meant it's very different than the Ritz," Tina replies.

Newt blinks. "You weren't expecting something like the Ritz, were you," he asks in mounting worry, "because-"

"Oh, no, no! I didn't mean that I wanted to go there. It's just that I went there this afternoon. For high tea."

Newt's eyebrows rise higher and higher as Tina relates the story of her afternoon.

"If ever I'd underestimated how much Madam Picquery wants to catch… the criminal who was in MACUSA's custody for a time," Newt says, carefully skirting a direct reference to Grindelwald. "Well, it's probably just as well that I never did."

"For sure."

"I trust you're not intending to share absolutely everything with Mr Murcutt?" Newt asks diffidently, twisting the sugar spoon this way and that in the sugar bowl.

"Of course not," Tina says. "I'll tell him… enough. But we started this adventure together, and I think that's how we should finish it." The look on her face is serious, sincere… Earnest. She smiles uncertainly, and Newt smiles back, feeling just as unsure. It's hardly romantic, yet somehow it is.

And just like that, the distance between them is gone.

"Yes, that's how we should finish it," Newt says, playing with the sugar spoon some more. It's either that or reach out across the table to take Tina's hand. "I have some thoughts about what we should do next."

"Before we do anything else, you need to fill me in on what's been happening here. You still haven't gotten around to telling me exactly what happened before you landed in the hospital," Tina reminds him.

"Well," Newt says, and commences his own tale.

Tina listens in silence for a while, until he gets to the part of the story that he knows will interest her the most.

"A dragon animagus!" she says, eyes wide. "I didn't think there could be such a thing - but then, I didn't think there could be such a thing as an Obscurus, either."

"I don't know if it was an animagus. The wizard in the dragon's form may not have been the one who cast the spell. But… whoever did it is certainly a wizard to be reckoned with."

"Or witch. It could have been a witch," Tina chides gently.

"It could," Newt agrees, "but…" And he gives her a quick summary of what Theseus told him earlier in the day about Antenor Lestrange's disappearance.

Tina's frowning by the time he finishes his recounting, and looks about to say something, but at that moment the waiter appears by the table with their meal.

"Cod and chips, just as requested," he says, placing one plate in front of Tina, and the other in front of Newt. "And something not as requested, but which I hope you will accept."

He deposits a bottle of wine on the table with a flourish of his hand. The bottle looks dark and a little dusty and… is that a cobweb over the cork?

The waiter opens the bottle with a flourish of his wand. Two wine glasses appear on the table a split second after he starts pouring wine. He doesn't spill a drop. To Newt's surprise, the wine is not red, as befits a wine kept in a dusty cellar for who knows how long, but white.

The waiter catches his eye. "From our cellar. You can't have red wine with white-fleshed fish," he says by way of explanation, which isn't really an explanation of why he's brought them wine at all. "Please forgive me if I'm wrong, but I got the impression that you and the lady might have something to celebrate?"

"Maybe," Newt says in as neutral a voice as possible. He doesn't dare look at Tina

"Then _maybe_ that calls for something slightly special to celebrate with," the waiter says. "Or simply celebrate our meeting," he adds, this last addressed to Tina. "Try it, and then taste the fish," he urges.

Tina takes a hesitant sip, and her eyes flicker as she swallows. "It's very… unusual," she manages.

Newt takes a sip of his own. The wine is dry and has a zing to it, and yet it's smooth as well. It slips down his throat as easily as Butterbeer. "It's very good," he says, not quite managing to keep all of the surprise out of his voice.

The waiter bows. "Enjoy your meal," he says, and Disapparates once more.

As soon as he's gone, Tina makes a face.

"The wine's not to your taste?" Newt asks,

"I don't think so. I don't really know. I've never tried wine before," Tina says.

"Really?" Newt is surprised.

"We have Prohibition in America, remember?"

"Yes, but, well, when we visited the speakeasy in New York, it clearly wasn't your first time there, so I just assumed…"

"MACUSA doesn't enforce Prohibition, but it's better not to keep alcohol on the premises at home, just to avoid potential situations with the No-Maj authorities. Gigglewater and Butterbeer, though - even Firewhisky - I've tried them all at the speakeasys. But there's not much call for wine in those establishments."

"This trip is introducing you to all sorts of new experiences," Newt observes.

"Just like your trip to New York did for you, but hopefully with less dark magic," Tina says with a wry grin.

"Actually, speaking of that," Newt says.

"Yes?" Tina asks warily.

"I have an idea of where we may be able to pick up the trail that went cold for you in New York," Newt says. "Theseus's people uncovered something interesting off the coast of Kent."

"Is that far?" Tina asks.

"Not terribly far, no. It's on the English Channel. The narrowest part, in fact."

Tina doesn't say anything - she's in the midst of a mouthful of fish - but she nods for him to elaborate further.

"The smallest distance between England and France," he explains.

Tina swallows down the fish, and takes a tiny sip of wine, just enough to wet her lips and make them glisten in the candlelight. "So if someone wanted to get over to France, or Germany, say, then…"

"That would be the shortest route, yes."

"Do you think you'll feel up to a trip to the coast tomorrow?" Tina asks.

"I think I just might." He doubts that anything could keep him away from Kent, particularly since Tina will almost certainly be going there, whether he accompanies her or not.

"Okay then," Tina says, looking down at her plate with a tiny smile. She cuts a chip and spears one half with her fork, and considers it a moment before trying it. It's thick and chunky, and covered all over with salt. "Not bad," she says. "I don't think I could eat a lot of them, though."

"Not as good as a hotdog, then?" Newt dares to tease.

"There's _nothing_ like a hotdog," Tina declares, but she tries another chip just the same.

Newt finally gives his attention to his own plate. It feels like an age since he last had any sort of meal and he's suddenly starving. The cod is covered in the thick beer batter that he remembers from the last time he was here, and the chips are golden brown and cooked in goose fat, which gives them a flavour subtly different from the lard-fried chips to be had elsewhere in London. He tries one, and yes, it's just as good as he remembers.

They eat in silence for a while. Newt's surprised at how easy it all is. He's not good with people, not good with _being_ with people. The worst thing he can imagine is a formal dinner and having to make conversation while trying to choke down his dinner. This dinner isn't like that at all, and not just because it is far from formal. It's Tina's company. The silences are as comfortable as the conversation. He's not entirely sure how they've reached this point, but can only be grateful that they have.

"I can't eat another bite," Tina says, laying her cutlery neatly together on her plate and pushing it away from her.

"It is very filling," Newt agrees, polishing off his last chip.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Tina says.

"My pleasure. Truly." And Newt's smiling foolishly at her again. "I was worried at first that it might have been a bad idea." The words are no sooner out of his mouth than he's cursing himself silently. Why did he have to bring up Tina's unease when they first arrived? Things have been going so well since then!

Tina seems to take it in her stride, though. "No. It just threw me off-balance for a moment. I wasn't expecting… But I'm glad I got to see a little of this side of London. It's not like the Ritz or Diagon Alley. It's something else again."

Newt nods, hoping his relief isn't showing, or not too much. "I grew up knowing little of London apart from… well, Diagon Alley and places like the reflection of the Palm Court at the Ritz. It wasn't until I was working for the Ministry and being sent out to inspect reports of various magical creatures that it occurred to me that there was a lot more to London than the parts I knew."

"You weren't raised here?" Tina asks - and Newt realises that Tina knows as little of his background as he did of hers before she mentioned her grandmother to the waiter.

"Oh, no. We grew up in the country, Theseus and I."

"Let me guess, in a mansion on a huge estate?" Tina's tone is playful, but there's something about the look in her eyes that tells Newt that she's at least a little serious.

"Nothing like that. My mother was a breeder of fancy Hippogriffs, so we had a few acres, and the house was reasonably large and comfortable, but no more than that. We weren't the Malfoys or the Lestranges, though of course we knew them."

"Of course," Tina echoes.

Newt waits for her to ask about Leta, but she doesn't. Instead, she says, "Something tells me that your idea of 'reasonably large and comfortable' is a little different than mine."

"Perhaps," he says. "But still. I don't come from great wealth. Just from…" He shrugs helplessly, not sure how else to describe it.

"Comfort," Tina finishes for him, but she doesn't press the issue. "So tell me about your mother's Hippogriffs. I'm guessing that's where your interest in magical creatures started?"

"Yes. Well, those and the Horklumps. As a boy, I used to cut off their tentacles - the Horklumps, not the Hippogriffs. Hippogriffs don't have-"

Tina makes a choking sound and covers her mouth with a hand.

Newt gets quickly to his feet, ready to rush to Tina's side and thump her on the back if necessary, but then he sees that her eyes are brimming with amusement. She's not choking; she's laughing.

"I'm sorry," she gasps out as Newt stiffly retakes his seat. "I just pictured it in my mind and…" She swallows hard, wipes a hand over her face, and manages to meet his eyes with apparent calm.

"I suppose it was amusing," Newt says. It doesn't feel funny to him.

"You must have been a great trial to your mother," Tina says, with a fond smile. The smile reaches her eyes. It's completely devoid of malice. Newt has enough experience of such smiles to be certain of that.

She's not laughing at him, he realises. She's laughing because he said something she found funny, not because she thinks he _is_ funny. Perhaps this means that the evening is still going well after all.

"'Horklump-encrusted' was the term she used, I believe," he says, and allows himself a fond smile of his own at the memory.

The waiter returns at that juncture.

"I trust the cod was to your liking?" he asks Tina as he whisks the plates from the table.

"Very much," Tina says.

"And I see you came to appreciate the wine." He nods at Tina's empty glass.

Newt blinks. When did that happen? He can't remember Tina taking more than two sips from the glass throughout the meal. He eyes her, brow creasing into a questioning frown.

Tina maintains an expression of complete innocence.

"I'll reseal the bottle so that you can take the rest home with you," the waiter says, putting action to his words with a quick tap of his wand on the top of the bottle. A cork sails across the room, inserts itself into the bottleneck and wriggles into place.

"Thank you," Tina says, her expression now looking the tiniest bit forced.

"May I get you anything else?"

"No thanks. I really couldn't eat another thing."

"Are you sure? My wife, Leah, has some rugelach fresh from the oven."

Tina hesitates.

"I, for one, would very much like to try your wife's rugelach," Newt puts in. He's not sure how Tina's going to react to that, so he's relieved when she flashes him a grateful smile.

"And perhaps a pot of tea to go with it?" the waiter suggests.

Tina closes her eyes briefly and visibly shudders. "No, thank you," she says firmly.

"Coffee, then."

Tina's face lights up. Newt only wishes that he could inspire such radiance.

"That would be _wonderful_ ," Tina says fervently.

"Two orders of rugelach and a pot of fresh coffee it is," the waiter says, Disapparating a moment later.

"Oh!" Tina looks over at Newt, her face falling. "I should have asked whether you wanted coffee or not. You probably wanted tea, didn't you?"

"I'm perfectly happy to drink coffee. I've had it many times before."

"I guess you have." Tina looks at Newt consideringly. He can't help wondering what, exactly, she's considering.

They don't have to wait long for the sweet course. A couple of small, crescent-shaped pastries that look rather like croissants are set before Newt. The smell of warm apple wafts up from the plate. The rugelach are covered in sugar and what looks like cinnamon. Despite the filling nature of the fish and chips, Newt thinks that perhaps he can find some extra room in his stomach.

" _Es gezunterheyt!_ ," the waiter says, already on his way to one of the other tables. It almost sounds like a command, though fortunately one that Newt will have little trouble in following.

Across the table, Tina is looking from her own plate of rugelach to the tall white china coffeepot in the middle of the table, and then back to the rugelach again.

Newt picks up his cake fork, intending to lead by example, when Tina says, "Shall I be Mother?"

The question sounds strange, asked in her American accent. When Newt doesn't reply at once, Tina adds, "I got that right, didn't I? That's what you say over here?"

"Quite right, though it usually applies to tea. Pour the coffee, by all means."

There are two demitasse cups and saucers in matching plain white porcelain sitting by the coffeepot. Tina lifts the coffeepot and pours a cup first for Newt and then for herself.

Newt accepts the coffee with a murmured 'thank you' and takes a sip that burns his tongue. He hastily sets the cup back in its saucer. The coffee is strong and sweet, more like the coffee he remembers from Cairo and Istanbul than the sort of coffee one finds in the drawing rooms of England.

Tina's first sip of the scalding hot coffee leaves a small, pleased smile on her lips, but she also sets her cup down in its saucer instead of drinking more. She cuts off a small piece of pastry with the side of her cake fork and lifts it slowly to her mouth, chewing carefully, as if this is something to take one's time over and savour.

"Mmm, apple and cinnamon - and walnut," she says. "They're not quite the same as the ones my grandmother used to make, but they're closer than anything I've tried since she passed on."

"Queenie doesn't make them?" Newt is surprised about that. Tina's sister is one of the best amateur cooks he's ever met.

"She's tried. She can't get them quite right. Not the way _Bubbe_ used to make them. There's always something missing, something that neither of us can quite put our finger on."

"Maybe the waiter's wife will share her recipe."

Tina shakes her head. "No, and I wouldn't ask her. Some secrets stay in the family."

Newt nods, and tries his own rugelach. It's still warm, and yes Tina's right about the apple, cinnamon and walnut, but there's also a sort of creaminess to the pastry. Not really sweet but… they're made with sour cream, perhaps?

Tina is watching his progress with interest. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm glad that we stayed for sweets," Newt says, cautiously sipping his coffee. It's still hot, but no longer quite so lethal as before.

Tina smiles, and this time the smile is meant for him. Newt allows himself to bask in the warmth of it for a moment before trying some more of the rugelach.

By the time the waiter returns, their plates and coffee cups are both quite empty. Newt feels...replete. There's really no other word for it. And not only because of the food.

Across the table, Tina looks similarly relaxed.

"Everything is to your satisfaction?" the waiter asks.

"Very much so," Tina replies. "Please tell Mrs… your wife…"

"Mrs Jublitsky. Leo Jublitsky, at your service," the waiter says, bowing.

"Please tell Mrs Jublitsky that I haven't had better rugelach since sitting at my grandmother's table."

Mr Jublitsky beams. "She will be most gratified." He Summons the bill, and, leaving it on the table at Newt's elbow, hurries off to see to another of his customers.

Tina reaches for her purse.

Newt shakes his head, frowning. "There's no need."

Tina bites her lip. "I usually go Dutch with my colleagues if we end up working late and going to dinner afterwards. We like to keep things square between us."

"But I'm not one of your colleagues," Newt points out. "And besides, _I_ invited _you_. It certainly wasn't in the expectation that you would pay for your own dinner."

"I know, but…" Tina looks torn, and there's an unhappy frown creasing her brow.

"Tina," Newt says, as gently as he can. "You dropped everything and came to London to make sure I was all right the moment you heard I'd been injured. You took a Portkey across the Atlantic, for Merlin's sake. I am in your debt and I'm not sure quite how much it will take for me to square things with you. Certainly more than one fish dinner."

There's silence for a moment, and then Tina drops her purse in her lap. "Okay," she says. She still doesn't look entirely happy about the situation, but at least she's stopped frowning.

Newt pays the bill, and then they're rising from their seats and farewelling Mr Jublitsky.

"It has been a great pleasure to meet you, my dear," Mr Jublitsky says.

Newt half-expects the man to raise Tina's hand to his lips and kiss it. He's relieved when that doesn't happen.

"And you," Tina says. "And Mrs Jublitsky's rugelach," she adds with a grin.

"Indeed!" Mr Jublitsky says, producing their coats and hats with a flick of his wand and ushering them to the room at the back with the fireplace. " _A gute nakht!_ ," he says, handing Tina a box of Floo Powder.

" _A sheynem dank!_ " Newt says.

" _Tsu gezunt! Zay gezunt!_ " Mr Jublitsky sounds as jovial as ever, but he raises an eyebrow at Newt as if to say, 'You kept that quiet, young man.'

_Zay gezunt!_ " Tina says. Once Mr Jublitsky has left the room, she turns to Newt. "You never mentioned that you could speak Yiddish!"

"Well, I can't, not really," Newt says, abashed. "I don't really speak any language save English, but I know a smattering of useful phrases in Yiddish, and a few other languages."

"How many others, exactly?" Tina asks.

"Oh, uh, well French, obviously, and German, plus a tiny bit of Russian, and you really can't get by in some parts of the world without at least a little Spanish. And Arabic is always useful, of course. Not to mention Chinese. And… well, a few others. It's something of an occupational hazard when one travels the world for any length of time."

Tina gives him an inscrutable look. How he wishes that he were better at reading her face. Not that he's good at reading anyone's face, particularly, but it would be less nerve-wracking if he could gauge something of what Tina's thinking from her expression.

"Most people wouldn't bother," Tina says at last.

Newt considers that. "I wouldn't quite say that," he says. "I know the sort of people you mean, but fortunately most of them would never travel in the first place."

"Or they just march into any hotel or shop or restaurant in any country, and expect everyone there to speak English."

Newt winces. He's seen that more than once on his travels, it's true. The people who do that sort of thing are also usually the sort of people who end up repeating themselves and shouting, as if this will somehow simply and magically make the person they're dealing with understand English.

Stupid, really, when everyone knows that translation spells are neither simple to cast nor reliable to operate, and take a great deal more skill than is required to yell until one is red in the face.

Tina rolls her eyes. "Just accept the compliment, Newt!" she says, in exasperation - though Newt is fairly certain that at least it's _fond_ exasperation.

"Very well. Thank you," he says, since there doesn't seem to be much else he _can_ say to that. "Shall we go?"

"You go first this time," Tina says, tossing a handful of Floo powder onto the fire. The flames flare green. "All right." Newt does as he's told and steps into the fireplace. A moment later, the fireplaces of London are whizzing past, and then he lands in his own fireplace with a thud. He gets out quick smart and goes to put away his coat and hat, before returning to the living room to wait for Tina.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done the best I can with the Jewish details, and the spelling and translation of the Yiddish words that feature in this chapter, but they're only as good as the sources available to me. Feel free to let me know of anything that needs correcting or clarifying if you know these things better than I do!


	13. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Telanu for hand-holding and general reassurance.

Newt knows precisely how competent and capable Tina is in just about any potentially dangerous situation, and the restaurant and Floo hardly qualify as that, but he remains just a little tense until there's a flash and thump, and she appears in his fireplace in one piece.

"Wow, that was a little bumpier than the last time," she exclaims, stepping out of the fireplace.

"It can be, sometimes. I think it has something to do with how many people are using the network at the same time."

"I guess that makes sense."

Tina nods and Newt nods back. After a moment, he realises he’s still nodding, and stops mid-nod. He waits for Tina to say something, but she doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, either. All of his words seem to have deserted him in the few minutes that they’ve been apart. It was so easy back at the restaurant, with food and other distractions to fill out the empty spaces. Now… He can't even ask her if she'd like a cup of tea. Even if they weren't both filled to bursting, they've just shared a pot of coffee.

Tina looks away, then digs in her pocket and finds a small brush. She then spends a short time brushing the soot off her coat and hat, while Newt looks around the room. His gaze lights on the sofa.

“Would you like to sit down?” he blurts out, just as Tina says:

"I'll just go put away my coat."

“Sorry!” they both say.

Tina shakes her head, but she’s biting down on a smile as she shrugs out of her coat.

"There's a coatrack in the hallway," Newt says. "Let me…" He lifts his hand, ready to take the coat from her.

"No, it's okay. I'll be right back," she says.

She moves quickly to the doorway and disappears into the hallway.

Newt blinks, and when he opens his eyes it’s as if she’s never been here, as if it’s just like any other night that Newt spends alone in this flat. He stands where he is, as still as if he’s been Petrified, not wanting to go into the hallway and find her gone. Not wanting to wake up and find out that this whole evening has been yet another wishful dream.

But then Tina’s step sounds in the doorway, and there she is: coatless and hatless, in trousers and white blouse, and sporting slightly messy hair, familiar in all her Tina-ness.

Newt lets out a long breath.

"Uh, I don't know if you've thought about sleeping arrangements, Newt?" she asks.

For a moment, Newt isn't entirely sure what she's asking. She can't be… can she? Their faux engagement surely doesn't extend to… _Is_ this a dream? It feels like it might be one.

"I'd really like to lie down for a little bit. I'm bushed," Tina says - and Newt realises that she's asking, quite literally, for a bed. That's all. He feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment. _Of course_ that's what she meant. Of course.

"You'll take my bed, naturally," he says.

"Oh, no. I couldn't do that," Tina protests.

"Of course you will. I insist. You'll want the privacy of the bedroom. I'll change the sheets and make sure everything's ready for you. I'll be quite all right out here. I can transfigure the sofa. It will be perfectly comfortable."

Tina looks from Newt to the sofa and back and… Once again, Newt has absolutely no idea what she's thinking. He's not sure that he wants to know.

"Thank you," Tina says with a sigh. She comes over and sits down on the sofa. Since the two armchairs are some distance away by the fire, Newt has no real choice but to sit down on the sofa beside her. "And thank you for this evening, too."

"You really did like it?" Newt asks, turning to look at Tina. The firelight dances in the background, limning her hair in red gold. She looks magical, and not just because she's a witch.

"I did," Tina says. "It's been so long since I last had any real reason to speak Yiddish that at first I wasn't sure. I was nervous… but in the end, it turned out to be… How did you know that it was what I needed, when I didn't even know it myself?"

"It was a complete accident - the Jewish side of things, I mean. I was just thinking of somewhere not too formal where they wouldn't care about your trousers or my hat, and that place came to mind."

Tina smiles. "Well, thank you, just the same. It was the nicest thing to happen to me since I arrived in London."

"The nicest?" Newt can't help but think of the two times that they've kissed since Tina arrived. While that first kiss was… unfortunate, the second wasn't too bad, was it?

Who knows? Certainly not Newt.

"It was far, far better than that afternoon tea at the Ritz with Mr Murcutt, that's for sure," Tina says, and then goes bright red as it dawns on her that Newt wasn't talking only about experiences pertaining to food. For once, Newt can read her face without difficulty. Maybe that's why he's the one to look away.

Tina reaches out and places a hand on his knee. Newt almost jumps right out of the chair.

"It really was lovely, Newt," Tina says, very, very quietly. "Thank you."

She doesn't say anything more, but she also doesn't move her hand away. Eventually, Newt has no choice but to dart a glance at her. Her eyes meet his, and the glance becomes a gaze. Her eyes are so very dark and mysterious, like pools in the forest at midnight. Newt thinks he could fall right in and not even care if he drowned.

Her lips are slightly parted and he can feel the tension in her hand on his knee, her fingers gripping hard.

He's not sure where he gets the courage to lift his hand and cup her jaw, but he does.

It's the easiest thing in the world to kiss her. This time there's no confusion about whether it's a dream, there's no pretending that it's simply 'practice'. This time it's just the two of them, honest, in the here and now.

It's the first time.

It's agonisingly slow to begin with, just his lips on hers, and hers on his, as light as the touch of a butterfly on a leaf, one small, soft kiss and then another. They both pull back, just a little, and Tina lets out a tiny laugh. A good laugh. A delighted laugh. Newt knows he's grinning like a fool.

His arms slip down around her, and he pulls her to him, a little more forcefully than he intended.

Tina lets out a soft, "Oof."

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Newt says, tensing, but Tina's laughing again and he relaxes. It's all right. Her hands slip up over his shoulders, pulling him closer in turn.

And then they're kissing in earnest. There's nothing in the world but the two of them, Tina's chest heaving against his as she meets him kiss for kiss, her hands sliding up along his neck until her fingers are winding into his hair.

She's so soft and warm against him, and he wants so badly to touch her, to explore all of her with hands and lips. Just the thought makes his cock fill with want.

Someone moans.

Newt pulls back, panting. Tina gives a tiny gasp as his lips leave hers. She opens her eyes, lips slightly parted in surprise. Her face looks softer, somehow, than he's used to, her lips redder and slightly fuller than usual. She looks well-kissed.

He leaps to his feet, turning slightly away so she won't see just how much he liked kissing her.

"I'll go and get the bedroom ready for you. It's been a long day and you need to rest."

He hurries from the room, not looking back and ignoring her cry of, "Newt!"

He closes the bedroom door behind him and leans back against it, breathing hard as if he's just run the hundred-yard dash. It was meant to be just a simple kiss, and it was. Until it wasn't.

He just needs to distract himself. That's all. Then everything will be fine.

His body has calmed down by the time he's changed the sheets and cleared a space in the wardrobe for Tina’s clothes. He leaves a set of fresh towels on the end of the bed, squares his shoulders, and goes back to face her.

Tina is still sitting on the sofa, very prim and proper-looking now, back straight and hands folded in her lap.

Newt wonders if he'll see reproach on her face, but when he finally makes himself meet her eyes, all he finds there is concern.

"Are you all right?" Tina asks. "You rushed out like something was on fire."

 _I was_ , Newt think, but all he says is, "I just needed to get the bedroom ready for you."

Tina isn't having any of that, though. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Of course not!" How could she ever think that?

"Then - why?" She holds his gaze, not letting him look away, not letting him hide.

Newt swallows hard. "Tina, I… I like you."

"I kinda got that," Tina says, glancing at the place beside her where Newt was so recently sitting, thankfully, rather than at any part of Newt himself.

"Perhaps too much," Newt adds in a rush.

Tina frowns, and gets to her feet. "Too much? What are you saying, Newt? That you regret a simple kiss?"

"No. But it wouldn't have stayed a simple kiss." Newt's brows crease in an unhappy frown. The silly smile that's never been far from his lips all evening is nowhere to be found.

"And you… don't want more than a kiss?" Tina asks, her frown deepening.

"On the contrary." Newt laughs bitterly. "But you are my guest. I can't just… " He holds his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "Well, I won't. You are quite safe from me, Tina. I won't be disrespectful to you in any way while you are under this roof - and at all other times as well, naturally."

There’s a moment’s silence. Newt can hear his heart thundering in his ears.

"You remember that I'm an Auror, right?" Tina asks, almost conversationally. "And you know that I can take care of myself? You've _seen_ me take care of myself, including in truly dire situations."

"Yes?" Newt isn't sure where this is going.

"So don't you think I should get a say in the matter? Shouldn't I be the one to decide whether someone is behaving disrespectfully towards me - or not?"

"Yes, but-"

Tina closes the distance between them. She's standing right in front of him, so close that it's impossible to look away. Newt tries anyway, but then Tina takes his hand, and lifts it. She draws it to her breast, and closes her own hand over his, holding it there. He can feel the warmth of her skin beneath the thin fabric of her blouse, the little peak of her nipple beneath… not a corset. A brassiere?

Newt lets out a shaky breath. He doesn't try to remove his hand, though. He will, in just a second. Just a few more seconds…

"You did that this afternoon, do you remember? When you woke up and saw me? You kissed me, and you touched me like this." Tina is standing so close that he can feel her breath, warm against his cheek.

"I thought you were a dream!"

"I'm not," Tina says, and kisses him.

Newt makes some kind of guttural noise deep in his throat, one he's never made before, and kisses her back. He caresses her breast, circling the nipple with one finger until it's hard as a pebble. He loves touching her, loves the feel of her, even through the barrier of clothing. It's even better when he lifts his other hand to give attention to her other breast. Tina makes a guttural sound of her own that he takes to be approval.

In hardly any time at all, his trousers grow tight again as his cock pushes up, hot and hard and urgent against his fly.

He doesn't try to flee this time, but he does move back a little, regretfully letting his hands drop and leaving a touch more space between the two of them. Tina has other ideas, though, and won't let him get away so easily. She presses up against him, one of her legs between both of his, and suddenly his cock is lying against Tina's leg, only a few thin layers of fabric separating them. It feels achingly good.

He thrusts against her, just once, because he can't stop himself. It's too close to the embodiment of too many of his dreams. He pulls back. "We should stop here," he whispers roughly. He doesn’t add, _because things will be over rather quickly if we don’t._ It must be blindingly obvious to her.

Tina blinks, and opens her eyes. "Okay."

She takes a step back, and then another, and Newt calls himself all kinds of fool. She looks tousled and sleepy-eyed and lovely, and it seems she wants him. It’s not a combination he’s ever had directed at him before. It probably won’t be again.

He swallows hard. "I believe I need a glass of water. Would you like one?"

Tina nods. "Thank you."

Newt escapes to the kitchen. When he returns with two tumblers of water a moment later, Tina is sitting on the sofa, her clothing restored to its usual order, and her hair presentable. She looks much as she always does, until Newt looks at her face. She looks even more well-kissed than before.

He should have got himself two glasses of water.

"Your water," he says, handing one of the tumblers to her. He makes no move to sit down.

"Thank you," Tina says, for all the world like she's come to afternoon tea and Newt has just poured her a fresh cup.

New sips his water. It's ice cold, and he swallows it down, grateful that it cools his nerve as much as his body, and gives him the courage to say what he wants to say instead of what he should.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" He asks the question quickly, before he can change his mind, and then hurriedly continues before Tina has a chance to respond. "It's all right. You don't need to tell me. I'm not going to pry. I just… it's different once you're no longer… untouched. Isn't it." That last bit is a statement rather than a question.

Tina notices that too, her eyes flying to his face, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. She sets her glass down on the side table at her elbow, and pats the sofa cushion next to her. "Come sit down, Newt. I can't talk with you standing all the way over there," she says.

Newt comes over, because what else can he do? He was the one who asked such an impertinent not-quite-question, after all. He sits as far away from Tina as possible, right up against the side of the sofa. The wooden frame of the sofa arm digs into his side.

Tina lets out a breath that might be a sigh. "His name was Marcus, and I thought I loved him," she says quietly, looking down at her hands. "I didn't, which was probably just as well, since it turned out that he didn't love me."

Newt opens his mouth to speak, but Tina reaches across and places her hand gently over his mouth. "It's all right. It's ancient history now. Really." She takes her hand away. "You've done it before, too," she says matter-of-factly. "Haven't you." It's not a question either.

Newt looks over at the window. Turnabout is fair play. Who said that? He doesn’t remember, but he can’t deny the truth of it.

"She wasn't important,” he says. “And I know I wasn't important to her, either. She was just a witch I met in my travels." He turns back, and finds Tina looking at him, understanding and sympathy in her eyes. "It was convenient, for both of us. It was all to do with proximity, rather than feelings."

Tina nods. "So this," - she waves her hand in a vague circle encompassing the two of them - "isn't just proximity?"

There’s no point in denying it. Tina must already know the answer.

"No," Newt says levelly, "it isn't."

Tina smiles, for the first time in a while. Newt hasn't realised how much he's missed her smile until he sees it again.

"Well then," she says, and, to Newt's surprise, gets to her feet. "I think I'll go lie down for a while. It's been an eventful day, one way and another."

Newt scrambles to his feet. "I hope you find the bed comfortable."

"I'm sure I will." Tina steps forward and lays a fleeting kiss on his lips. "Thank you for this evening, Newt." And then she turns to leave the room.

And now he’s alone again. The rest of the evening will be just like any other night, just Newt and…

"Oh!" Newt exclaims just after she disappears into the hallway. He hurries after her. "Tina!"

"Yes?" Tina is in the act of turning the doorknob on the bedroom door.

"If I might just…?" Newt pushes open the door and slips in past her. He returns almost immediately, carrying his suitcase. "I almost forgot my creatures. I mean, I _did_ forget them for a little while." He shakes his head, still not quite believing it.

Tina nods. "I'm sure they're okay. They were fine when I fed them this afternoon."

"Oh, I'm sure they are," Newt agrees. "It's just… that's never happened before. Not ever."

"But you've remembered them now," Tina says.

"Yes, yes I have."

They both stand there for a moment, looking at each other. This time it’s not for lack of words, though. Newt drinks in the sight of her, in his home, in his life. And about to spend the night in his bed. Alone.

"Newt, you're going to have to move if I'm going to get through this door," Tina points out, as if she hasn’t been looking back at him for just as long as he’s been standing there, looking at her.

"Oh, oh yes." Newt hastily gets out of the way. "Good night, then."

"Good night," Tina says.

They stand there a moment longer, just looking at each other, before Tina goes into the bedroom and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

Newt stands there a while longer, until the catch flicks open on the suitcase, followed by a rumble from inside.

"Yes, yes, Dougal. I'm here. I'll be right in to see you. Just a moment."

He carries the case back to the living room, trying to keep his mind on his creatures. He's never had to actively try to do that before.

He fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [luthienebonyx](http://luthienebonyx.tumblr.com/) @tumblr if you want to talk to me over there.


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